Legacy
by In the House
Summary: Both House and his current patient struggle to work through the sometimes-difficult truth of what exactly our parents give to us. Part of the Pranks series; follows Verdict. House/Cuddy/kids, Wilson/OC, Jensen, Thornton.
1. Chapter 1

Here we go with another ride in the Pranks universe. This story follows Verdict. Actually, I guess it technically follows Belle, but Belle is such an odd one in the series that it kind of inhabits a secondary circle of its own. Plotwise, this picks up from Verdict. House and company are not mine. Jensen, Abby, and Thornton are mine. Also, please remember that the Pranks universe angled away from the TV show partway through the Greater Good. Nothing since halfway through S5 on your TV screen has happened in my little world. Enjoy!

(H/C)

"What's in the envelope?" Jensen asked as he came across his office with a cup of coffee in each hand.

House had just finished getting himself settled in his usual chair with ottoman. He looked down at the manilla envelope in his left hand and promptly dropped it on the floor on the other side, away from the chair Jensen always used. "I'll explain that later."

"Okay." Jensen sat down and handed him a cup. House was always amazed at how the psychiatrist could put topics on hold when he wished, never forgetting them but not still pushing away at them, either, just accepting the temporary postponement. Of course, Jensen did have another inviting track to explore at the moment. "What happened today?"

House took a sip of his coffee. "How do you know something happened today?"

The psychiatrist absorbed that reply and plugged it into the puzzle. Ah, so he wanted to have a tug-of-war over the existence of the topic first before actually discussing it. That only confirmed Jensen's first impression, that House was very unsettled and bothered by something specific today, totally aside from the contents of the mystery envelope. By this point in therapy, he didn't usually resist getting into discussion unless they were on the edge of something large. "You're only confirming that something did happen, you know," Jensen pointed out. "If nothing had, you'd simply tell me I'm wrong instead of asking how I knew."

House rolled his eyes. "Forgot you were a mindreader there for a minute. What's the use of talking to you at all? You could just tell _me_ instead; saves time that way."

Jensen smiled. "I don't know details until you tell me. But _how_ I knew something was up should be obvious if you think about it."

House tilted his head, scenting a challenge. "You read body language pretty well. But you didn't just say something had happened; you said it had happened today. How do you know when? Since I only walked in here a minute ago -" He trailed off. "We were talking very briefly last night. You called to remind me of the time change for today, not that I'd forgotten it, but given the occasion, makes sense you wanted to make doubly sure everything was set. So you must have concluded in a 1-minute conversation last night that nothing acutely was bugging me then, ergo it's happened today. But how do you know I just didn't tell you last night? That call was too short to talk about anything besides time slots. I could have just decided to put it off until today's session."

Jensen gave him a nod. "Go on, Dr. House. It's a good analysis."

"That leads us straight back to you being a mindreader."

"Not a mindreader, just somebody who has known you for quite a while now. Last night, you had enjoyed an evening home with your family, and your tone carried nothing at all besides that. I suppose it _is_ possible that something major happened later in the evening, although there wasn't much evening left, but you aren't worried like you get with things related to Dr. Cuddy and the girls. Far more likely that it happened this morning at work."

House looked away, starting to tire of this game. "It's not something major."

"Prove it," the psychiatrist challenged. "Let's talk about this minor, inconsequential thing that happened today, then."

House sighed. This was pointless; he'd known that in the first place. Jensen was the most politely persistent person he'd ever run across, and escape hadn't been possible anyway. They _were_ going to be discussing this in session today. "Thornton's latest email came this morning," he said, capitulating.

Jensen settled back in his chair. House and his biological father had been communicating by email for two months now since the trial of Patrick Chandler, a tense exchange but a regular one. Jensen, getting the play-by-play from the sidelines, admired Thomas Thornton's intelligence and persistence more all the time. It was almost a campaign being conducted, House on the one hand constantly pushing at his father, trying to either get him mad or make him give up, and Thornton always civil but unmistakably _there_ and not going anywhere. This morning's email must have been a humdinger. House wasn't usually this tense even on this topic. "What did he say?" Jensen prompted when House stalled for a minute. House wasn't dodging that time, just hesitating on the brink of the jump.

"I had asked him a question last reply. I asked him to name even _one_ thing he had ever done for me during my childhood." He paused again, and this time, Jensen gave him a moment. "He said that he arranged and paid for the piano lessons and actually bought Mom's piano."

The psychiatrist was surprised himself, although thinking about it, that made sense. Thornton, son of the concert pianist, would have been much more likely to encourage his son into that avenue than Blythe. But the logistics would have been challenging to put it mildly, since Thornton was nominally no more than a family friend stopping by for visits every year or two. Blythe and Thornton both hadn't realized that John - or that House himself, later - knew the true paternity. "How did he manage that?" Jensen asked. They would have to get into the emotional impact of this information, which was significant, but House always processed better starting with the facts of something.

House spread his hands. "I don't know. Maybe he's just lying to me?" He didn't believe that himself.

"He didn't give any further details?"

"No, damn it. Just the one sentence and then signed off. He never gives me a full answer to anything. He wants me to _ask_ him." Jensen tossed another mental salute to Thornton, who clearly understood about making use of his son's curiosity to keep him on the hook.

"You've mentioned the piano lessons a few times, and if I remember correctly, you said that your mother just had a friend at one station who gave them, so they set it up between them. They didn't know how good you were until the lessons started." In fact, House had mentioned the lessons more than a few times because it was the one thing his mother had stood up to John about. That was definitely out of character for her. No, Thornton had to be telling the truth, and he, not Blythe, had been behind it.

"Right. Mom got the piano as a late birthday present from John. She had mentioned several times over the years wanting a piano someday, not that she could play much, but she just liked the _idea_ of a piano in the house, I think." Jensen nodded. A physical representation of a nice, happy home. Classic Blythe, to go for symbols instead of substance. "And then this friend of hers found a used piano she knew of that the owners had to move quickly. It was only $50 because of the urgent time line. Mom told John, and he liked the idea of getting something worth so much more just for $50, so he bought it, and the piano teacher arranged delivery with some people she knew. That's how we got the piano."

Jensen studied his patient. "$50 for a piano? And you believed that?" House looked away. "Of course you did," the psychiatrist realized a second later. The arrival of music in his life would be too precious to be questioned, an oasis in the stark desert of his childhood. He would never have allowed himself to challenge that, not even in the privacy of his thoughts.

House's eyes were distant. "I remember the piano arriving. I'd never played one, never even touched one. I had no idea of it. But Mom was so excited when the truck pulled up, so happy, almost _bubbling_. I'd never seen her like that. And John was walking around all proud of getting such a deal on it. The next afternoon, I went into the room and just touched one key. Just one note, over and over. I was afraid to do anything more, but I'll always remember the sound of that one note. There was _nothing_ in that house before it came that ever sounded like that. It was C-sharp; I had picked one of the black ones, not that I knew what the notes were. Just a little upright piano, nothing like I've got now, but it was almost magnetic." He took another swallow of coffee, lost in a memory that for once wasn't traumatic.

"Then a few weeks after that, now that a piano was in the house, Mom's friend wanted to start giving me lessons because she hardly had any boys as students. She wondered if boys would be less or more talented than girls as a general group." House's lips twisted in a humorless smile. "John didn't object to that - not at first anyway - because it wasn't costing him anything, and he was absolutely sure I was going to prove to her that boys aren't cut out for sissy stuff like that. I was just a piece of data in an experiment, and I was supposed to fail. Later on, he would grumble some about lessons, but Mom would remind him that they never cost him anything. All the teachers wherever we went were glad to have me as a student once they knew I was good. And the piano wasn't mine; it was hers that he gave her himself. That helped protect it." He looked back over at Jensen. "Perpetual free lessons and a $50 piano. No, I never questioned it. Even all these years, I'd never questioned it." He shook his head. "But how could he . . .?"

"Ask him," Jensen suggested. Honestly, stage managing that behind the scenes had Thornton's signature all over it, now that he thought about it. The man was an excellent strategist.

"But that's what he _wants_ me to do." House looked away again. "So we would have to talk about it."

"You have to know by now, Dr. House, that you aren't going to make him go away. You were hoping that would be the question to stump him and make him give up, weren't you?"

House nodded after a moment. "I didn't think he'd _have_ any answer to that."

"I'm sure he would have had some kind of answer, even if just, 'I wish I could have done something directly.' You _aren't_ going to get him to leave you alone, Dr. House. This constant pushing at him isn't going to work. Either you are going to have to be the one to break it off and walk away, or you're going to have to start actually talking to him instead of only challenging him." House was silent. "That's frightening, isn't it? Because if you can't get him to leave, if that isn't his default modus operandi, then maybe you have misjudged him all along. Just like if he was behind the music, he actually was involved and interested in your life behind the scenes then and doing as much as he could without annoying John. Hard to change an idea of someone that you've held for 50 years."

House flared up. "He _did _leave me there. That's a fact."

"Yes. Without knowing what he was leaving you in. Everybody left you there, even the ones in the same house."

"I know," House grudgingly admitted. "You might have mentioned that before."

Jensen changed gears, backing away from Thornton. "How are things with your mother?"

House finished off his coffee in about two large gulps. "Odd," he admitted. "Things are different talking to her, but it's . . .just odd."

Jensen nodded. "Like I said, it's hard to change an idea you've held for 50 years. Even harder in this case because of how the thought that you had to protect her was pounded into you."

"She agrees that she missed things; she's surprised that I haven't brought it up before. It's almost like she _expects_ it, like you said."

"Yes. The big thing needed here is you processing the feelings for yourself. She's already been working on her own guilt for over two years of therapy, so you don't have to convince her she made mistakes. You just both need to deal with the past, you more than her because the trauma to you was immeasurably greater. Guilt later is nothing compared to the reality you lived with for years then. It _will_ be hard on you. Have you mentioned Thornton to her yet?"

House shook his head sharply. "I just need to keep them separate right now. Hard enough to learn to deal with them apart. I don't want to combine it. Thornton's left her alone as a subject, but I know she'd be all over talking about him if I mentioned he was back in my life. She'd be wondering when the date was for him to meet the girls, and she'd be justifying his whole past. I don't want to hear it, not from her. Not while things are already changing between us."

"That's okay,"Jensen assured him. "I was thinking that she might be able to provide some factual details on the music if you need them, but asking him for details would be even better." Blythe's major contribution with the piano would be confirmation in case House thought Thornton was lying, but while he was obviously shaken up by the idea of his father providing the music, he wasn't really doubting the veracity of it. Still, Jensen reminded him of his mother's waiting confirmation in case House did start thinking himself out of believing it. It really would be better to ask Thornton if House could bring himself to do it. That sort of open question, not a challenge but a genuine request for information, would be a step forward for them. "How are you sleeping?" Jensen asked, turning the subject away from his parents. House was hitting the limit here. They had to go slowly.

House relaxed some. "Pretty good. I haven't had any nightmares this week, even with the dose on the sleeping pills cut back."

"Good. Keep the string going tonight, all right? Don't let this email ruin tonight for you and Dr. Cuddy."

House shifted uneasily. "You think I ought to take more just for tonight?"

The psychiatrist considered it for a minute. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I'll leave that as a judgment call for you to make depending on how you're feeling when you go to bed. Maybe deciding not to have nightmares would work, or you might truly need a little more help with it the first night after this new revelation. Just be sure it isn't stubborn bullheadedness that makes the decision for you. There isn't a wrong or 'weak' answer here; either way could be valid." Jensen glanced at his watch. "We need to be wrapping it up. Are you ready to explain that envelope?"

House reached for the manila envelope he'd carried into the office and simply held it in his hands for a moment, studying it. "This will need a little bit of a road map," he said finally. "This is for Cathy."

Jensen smiled at him. "She'll love it." Today was Cathy's birthday, and the psychiatrist had adjusted his usual Friday schedule, trimming out some appointments and backing House up a few hours so that he could leave the office early and be home when his daughter returned from school.

House looked at the plain brown package. "You can't know that yet."

"Actually, I can. She'll be delighted that you thought of her, whatever it is. But where does the road map come into play?"

"It's a CD," House said. "A recording of a piano piece."

"An _original_ piano piece?" Jensen asked, his own enthusiasm kicking in. As tense as House was about gifts, though slowly getting better, he gave spectacular ones, always based on true analysis of the recipient. Cathy would love a piece written by him for her.

House nodded, confirming the guess. "Yeah. Then there's the sheet music. I wrote it down, but . . ." His restless fingers drummed against the envelope for a moment. "She won't be able to play it. Not now, at least. She _will_ someday, with work at it. Maybe not as well as I can, but passably. But while it's not impossibly difficult, it's way beyond her current level. When I first thought of the idea, I was thinking of giving her something that she could play now, but it just didn't turn out that way." Cathy was enthusiastic about her lessons and making slow but steady progress since changing teachers almost a year ago, but House had already gathered from questions that she was far from Abby's natural genius. Even Abby would take time to develop the gift, even apart from her hands needing to grow.

"That's okay," Jensen reassured him. "The challenge is worth something in itself. She'll appreciate that better than something obviously dumbed down for her."

"That's not all, though. After I wrote it out for her and realized it would take her a few years to get there, I rewrote it. Not dumbing it down; I couldn't do that to it if I wanted to. But I . . . I _split_ it. I arranged it a little differently, two instruments instead of solo, and rewrote it as a piano/guitar duet. Same song, different format. _That_ one is much easier with things divided between the two and the instruments working together. She'll be able to do that one a lot faster, although she'll still have to work at it." House looked up from his hands, puzzled and worried about the lack of immediate feedback on that part of his idea.

Jensen was staring at him, absolutely speechless for once. House misread it and looked away, and the psychiatrist quickly scrambled to explain. "That's perfect, Dr. House. That's even better. _Two_ versions, one for her to work on together with me now, something that we can share and spend time with, and the other one as a challenge goal for later. Plus the recording of the original version. It's wonderful. She'll love it. _I _love it. You really do give amazing gifts."

House relaxed a little, but he still deflected. "Better hear it before you decide you love it. You have no idea what you're voting on here."

"Yes, I do," Jensen insisted.

House held the envelope out tentatively. "So you can explain the two different sheet music copies to her."

"Actually," Jensen said, "why don't you explain it yourself?" House straightened up too quickly and flinched as his leg protested. "Come home with me and give it to her yourself, Dr. House. She'd rather have a live performance the first time she heard it instead of CD, too."

House looked desperately at his watch. "Lisa will be expecting me at home. We've got our weekly date tonight."

"And we're also running three hours ahead of our normal schedule. Dr. Cuddy is working at the hospital, I'm sure, until her own appointment, and Marina is with the girls. You can still be home at your usual time, and a slice of birthday cake in between won't ruin your appetite for dinner."

Birthday cake. People. Parties. House lurched to his feet. "I don't need to crash her birthday party."

Jensen stood himself. "Her big birthday party with friends and all is tomorrow. Better scheduling on a Saturday between her friends and Mark and his family. They couldn't get clear down from Albany after school is out this fast. This afternoon is just me and Melissa. No crowded party, I promise." He still hadn't taken the envelope. "You don't have to," Jensen yielded. "But as perfect as your idea is, it would mean even more hand delivered." House debated, still uncertain of all this. "Everyone there this afternoon would love to have you join us, and the gift is going to be a big hit. It will be fun. Unless, of course, you don't like cake and ice cream."

House grinned after a moment. "What flavor?"

"Chocolate on the cake, not sure on the ice cream. Come on, Dr. House. This isn't a final exam that you need to prepare for. Just one 10-year-old girl, and I promise, you're going to make her day. There is _no_ way to fail with this." Unerringly, he zeroed in on the true reason House had planned to give the gift by proxy; he wouldn't see the initial reaction himself that way, just in case it went wrong. Jensen knew he was pushing him here. He couldn't help it, picturing the end scene himself from a father's standpoint, but that didn't make his prediction any less true. House was a lot more tense in the last few minutes, but he wasn't actually running.

House looked at the other man's expression and sighed. Jensen's eyes spoke more than the words. He seriously did want House to come home with him for this instead of just delivering the gift himself, and he rarely asked House for anything even as a favor and never pulled the "you owe me" card. He was one of the few people in House's adult life who could have legitimately whipped that card out and yet never had. House slowly pulled out his cell phone. "Let me call Lisa and get her vote. She'll want to know where I am anyway." The conversation was fairly one-sided, most of that being Cuddy's side. After a minute, House ended the call. "All right, but if I have to leave, I . . ."

"You'll have your car with you. All you need to do is say you've got to get back to Princeton." Jensen touched him lightly on the arm. "Thank you for this, Dr. House. She _is_ going to love it. Come on, let's go."

Together, they left the office.


	2. Chapter 2

Jensen pulled out his cell phone as his car left the parking lot of the office building.

"Michael?" Melissa's voice had a thin edge of uncertainty under it, like a submerged rock in a river, below the surface but impacting the flow of water over it. "Are you about done for the day?"

"Yes," he reassured her quickly, feeling a little guilty. "I'm on the street right now, and I'll be home in ten minutes. Jameson has coverage from now through the weekend. The whole rest of today is about Cathy; I'm not letting anything interfere with that."

She let out a soft sigh. "I know. Sorry. I just . . . when I saw it was you, I . . . call it a flashback. I know you wouldn't let anything stop her birthday. Not short of catastrophe."

"No catastrophe. I'm fine, and the work can take a number with somebody else. Be there in a jiffy."

"So why did you call when I'll see you in ten minutes?" she asked. She actually hadn't worried that he might not return early as promised until the phone call.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stir up old memories. I just wanted to give you a little advance notice so you won't be surprised. I'm bringing House home with me." Jensen looked in the rearview mirror as he stopped at a light. House's car was directly behind him.

"Bringing him home with you?" She was good and puzzled now, but Jensen was relieved to hear that she wasn't annoyed. She wasn't jumping to conclusions now, even if she had started to a minute ago in a 'flashback,' as she had put it.

"He brought Cathy a present. He actually wanted me to deliver it for him and explain it, but this will be even better in person."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Cathy will be glad to see him. What's the present?"

"He composed a piano piece for her. There's a CD recording of it, and then he transcribed it, but it isn't easy. He said it will take her years to be able to play it, but she probably _will_ be able to eventually with effort. So then he also wrote it down as a piano-guitar duet in an easier version, and that one we can work on now, although it will take a little time, too."

She was stunned into silence for a minute, and he, unlike House earlier, didn't misinterpret it. "Wow!" she said after a long pause.

"Wow," he agreed.

"Of course he had to come home with you; he can play it for her. She'll love it. Have you heard it yet, Michael?"

"Not yet. We'll let her have the world premiere. But I didn't want you to be surprised to see him." House was on edge already. Surprise could be too easily misinterpreted as disapproval, especially when he knew in rough sketch the history between Jensen and Melissa. Besides, Jensen wanted the unmonitored chance to explain to her, just in case she thought at first that he was bringing work home again. House didn't need to be part of that conversation.

"I think it's a fantastic idea. I still remember that piece he played for his wife at their wedding. She'll treasure this for the rest of her life."

"Yes, she will. It's perfect. I'll see you in a few minutes, okay? I mean _we_ will."

"I'll see both of you then. I love you."

"Love you, too." Jensen hit end and looked behind him, just doublechecking. House was still there.

(H/C)

House had been to Jensen's home once previously almost a year ago, right after Patrick Chandler had first launched his full-scale campaign with the distribution of the paperwork. House had been still half in shock from that weekend, as well as hurting from an entire day in the car, but he remembered the place as a comfortably sprawling single-level without being ostentatious. It had seemed like a home, not just a house.

Today, when he pulled into the driveway behind Jensen, was very distant from that first occasion. In spite of his tension about the upcoming scene, there was no acute crisis going on, no threat to his sanity, no attack underway by a frighteningly good and completely amoral opponent. Patrick was in prison, where he would spend the rest of his life. The world, while they knew the details Patrick had revealed, had pretty much decided that those details weren't that important and had moved on to other things. This afternoon, there was nothing for House to get through except Cathy.

House hauled himself out of the car and picked up the envelope from the seat again. Very plain-looking envelope. He wondered if he should have given it a ribbon or something.

Jensen walked back to meet him. "She's going to love it, Dr. House. The package isn't the important thing here."

"If you're going to insist you aren't a mindreader, stop acting like one," House grumbled. Jensen grinned and started up the sidewalk. "Is she home yet?"

"Shouldn't be." The psychiatrist looked at his watch. "About 20 minutes. We won't have long to wait after she gets home, because we're going to have to get into presents pretty quickly."

House grinned himself. "Patience isn't her strong point?"

"That's an understatement, but there's another reason." He reached the front door and opened it. "We're here!"

_We're _here, House noted. Couldn't blame Jensen for giving her some warning on the drive, though.

Melissa emerged from the kitchen, greeting her husband first, then turned to him. "Thank you for coming, Dr. House. She's going to love this."

Preinformed or not, she didn't seem to be acting. House looked down at the envelope in his left hand again. Before he had to say something, Jensen stepped in. "All quiet on the western front?"

She smiled. "For the moment, but we aren't going to keep this cat in the bag long. You should have been on the drive home with me at noon. I wanted earplugs."

House tilted his head, analyzing this. "Come here," Jensen told him. "Where did you hide the evidence, Melissa?"

"Our bedroom." Jensen softly walked down the hall and opened the door. On the precise middle of their bed was a kitten, curled up with that angelic expression of innocence which kittens specialize in, at least while asleep.

"Siamese," House said, noting the dusky paws, nose, and tail tip.

"Yes. She's always been fascinated with them. Melissa picked him up earlier today from the breeder." Jensen closed the door quietly. "We'd better let sleeping kittens lie for the moment. Melissa called me after she got home, and things were far from quiet then." He headed back down the hall. "Bathroom's in there. You know already where the piano is."

House ducked into the bathroom. When he emerged a few minutes later, both Jensen and Melissa were obviously in the kitchen. He lingered in the living room briefly, putting his envelope on top of the piano, then studied the instrument. A small upright, much like the one of his childhood. The one Thornton claimed to have given him. He would have to reply to that email, either asking for more information or changing the subject completely, but surely Thornton wouldn't lie about that. Not about music. The man's father had been a professional musician, after all; he had to know what a serious topic that was.

The reply didn't need to be for a little while, at least. That gave House time to think of what to say. Thornton always emailed him on Tuesday and Friday mornings around 9:00 a.m. The pattern had never been mentioned, but House had quickly worked it out, and for two months, it had been unfailing. Of course, as soon as House figured out the system, he made a point of always varying his replies, keeping his own schedule random. Last Tuesday, he had replied within two hours, sending his challenge about naming one thing his father had done for him. This time, the reply needed to be on a totally different day.

This living room was a calm, cozy place. House turned, surveying it. He could easily imagine the family sitting in here together, watching movies or just talking. He reached out to the piano and hit C sharp, then turned away and limped to the kitchen.

Jensen and Melissa were both at one of the counters, heads conspiratorially together, looking at something. Jensen reached out and touched her in the small of the back, a gesture full of affection, pride, and approval. House was suddenly struck by how rarely he had ever seen John touch Blythe like that. When he had touched her, it was more direction - come this way. Of course, he had never touched House with affection. The pure otherworldliness of a home like this settled over him. So far from what he had had.

But Rachel and Abby would have it. He could still participate, just from the other side.

Jensen sensed his presence and turned around. "Look at this, Dr. House," he urged. House crossed the kitchen. There were two cakes on the counter, obviously one for today, the larger for tomorrow's festivities. Both of them were lovingly decorated, the smaller one with musical notes and staffs on what looked like cream cheese icing, the other a scene of kittens playing in flowers. Both of them proclaimed, "Happy Birthday, Cathy."

"You did these yourself?" he asked. This was professional quality. These could have been sold in a store.

Melissa straightened up with a touch of pride. "Yes. Took me most of the day getting them ready, at least the part where I wasn't fetching the kitten."

At that moment, a screech echoed from down the hall that sounded like a malfunctioning electronic toy or a siren. Jensen winced, Melissa groaned, and House laughed. "Just _think_ of all the years of enjoyment you have ahead of you. That sounds like somebody doing a bad imitation of Pavarotti."

"Remind me. This was my idea?" Jensen asked.

Melissa nodded. "I have to wonder if Cathy's ever actually heard one."

"Maybe they grow up out of it," House suggested, suddenly grateful that Belle was a quiet cat.

Jensen sighed. "You put the cakes up for the moment, and I'll go try to quiet him down. Cathy's going to know something's up before she even gets off the bus." He headed down the hall, and House followed him. "We had a few cats when I was growing up," Jensen said. "Plain old Heinz 57 cats, nice enough. But Cathy had to think that Siamese look neat. Maybe we should have tried a tabby from the shelter first to see if she'd accept the substitute." He opened the bedroom door. The kitten, awake now and stiffly upright on all four legs on the bedspread, stretched and yowled again. "Listen up. We need to set a few ground rules," Jensen said, reaching out to pick up the silky ball of fur and scratch its ears. "You don't do that between 10:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. Got it? The neighbors will think we're having a murder over here."

The kitten settled down and started purring like a helicopter against his shirt. "He'll be running the house in no time," House predicted. "I think Belle is in charge half the time at our place, even if Lisa pretends it isn't true."

Just then, the school bus was heard stopping outside. Jensen put the cat down again on the bed. "Shhh," he admonished. He took one step away, and the kitten opened its mouth. House sat down on the edge of the bed, scratching ears, and the feline tyrant settled back down immediately. "Hurry up and tell her about it," House advised.

"Soon as we can," Jensen agreed. He left the bedroom, leaving the door open. House heard the front door open with vigor a minute later as Cathy like a whirlwind blew into the house.

"Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!"

"Hi, Cathy. How was your birthday so far?" Melissa asked.

"Pretty good. Course, it would have been a whole lot better if my parents hadn't made me go to school. They got to skip on their birthday in the Little House books. Besides, I wouldn't have had to wait then for my presents. Whose car is that in the driveway?" House, listening to her, smiled slightly as he ran the song in his head. Yes, it fit her.

"Oh, you think you have presents?" Jensen teased, but even at a distance, House could tell that he wasn't serious. Cathy didn't believe him for a moment. Again, this was _so_ different from his own childhood, with John mocking the occasion, everything even a little positive on the surface having a darker, private subtext of what would happen later. He shook himself firmly out of the past. To hell with John; today was for Cathy. The kitten edged over into his lap and gave a robust purr of agreement. House tried to move away, to gently stand up, and the kitten dug in claws. He was trapped, and the little thing would no doubt go off again the minute it was left alone. How could something this size, this soft, make _that_ sound?

Jensen came to the rescue, even long distance. "Well, if you just can't wait any longer, your first two presents are waiting on our bed."

Cathy trotted down the hall like a full herd of horses, sounding like an older Rachel, and appeared in the doorway. "Dr. House! And a kitten! Oh, wow. It's a Siamese, too. How did you get here?"

House offered her the kitten. "In a car, but we came in separate cars. I'm not responsible for the kitten."

Cathy's parents had appeared in the doorway behind her at this point, and they watched as she took the kitten and hugged him. The kitten, obviously sorting out quickly whom to butter up in this household, snuggled in, doubled the volume, and blinked impossibly blue eyes at her, looking angelic. "Wow," Cathy said again. She made a swift half pirouette and hugged both of her parents one-armed. "Thank you. Thank you so much." She broke away and quickly came over to give House a hug, too. "And thank _you_, Dr. House."

"The kitten's not from me," he emphasized again.

"But you _came_ to see me on my birthday. Thank you."

He realized abruptly that she thought _he_ was a gift. He himself, even empty handed. That startled him into speechlessness for a moment, during which Cathy happily returned to her parents. "Look at the eyes! Isn't she gorgeous?"

"She's a he," Melissa corrected. "And yes, he is gorgeous."

"Does he have a name?"

"Not yet."

Cathy switched tracks again, returning to House. "Don't you think he's pretty, Dr. House?"

"That's definitely one word for him." House could suggest a few others already. So could her parents; he could see the thought written across their faces.

Cathy hugged him again. "Thank you for coming," she repeated.

He shrugged. "Your dad happened to mention something about cake and ice cream."

"Actually, he _did_ bring you something," Jensen prompted gently.

Cathy immediately changed into sleuthing mode, looking on each side of him and even behind him, all the while holding her kitten. "So where is it?"

"Oh, it's in the house. In fact, you probably already walked straight past it." House was suddenly amused on top of the nervousness. She reminded him so strongly of Rachel, with her enthusiasm bubbling over into every activity of life, even if she was a little short on working out details.

Cathy made a circuit of the bedroom, even bending over to look under the bed. "Okay, where did you hide it?"

"I didn't hide it," House replied, perfectly honestly. Jensen was fighting back laughter.

Giving up on her parents' bedroom, Cathy retraced her steps, still clutching the kitten, and headed back down the hall. House pulled himself to his feet. "I really didn't hide it," he said softly.

By the time the three of them made it to the living room, Cathy was doing another lap. "I don't see a present," she complained as she walked again by the plain brown envelope on top of the plain brown piano. She took a third lap, then looked back at him. "Come _on_," she urged. "Where is it?"

House suddenly couldn't drag it out anymore. Gifts had too often been just something to taunt him. "Look on the piano," he said.

Cathy turned back around, spotting the envelope after a brief search this time. She picked it up, considered the difficulties of opening it while holding her kitten, and dropped onto the couch. Setting the kitten in her lap, she started to unseal the flap.

"Wait a minute," House said. The living music should come before the written copy. She stopped obediently and looked at him. "I need to explain it to you first. It will make more sense if you know what it is before you see it. Okay?"

"Okay." She faced him and waited. The kitten curled into a shrimp on her lap and purred.

House stalled, the words breaking down. "This is . . . I wrote this for you."

She sat straight up, looking at the piano, and the kitten rolled off her lap and gave a protesting (but relatively soft) squawk, climbing back on with claws. Cathy didn't even flinch. "You wrote me a song?"

"Yes. Here it is." He took a step toward the piano, then stopped and eyed the kitten sternly, picturing a duet of an entirely different nature. "And as for _you_, this is a solo performance this time. No feline aria or Pavarotti imitation. Don't ruin this." Jensen and Melissa both smiled. Cathy still looked almost in shock. House sat down at the piano, studying the keys, flexing his fingers, and Cathy's parents sat down on either side of her. Everybody, even the kitten, seemed to be waiting. House took a deep breath. "Happy birthday," he said.

Then he started to play. The music quickly took over as usual, and within a few lines, he had relaxed. The song was a dance, quick, light-footed, and rhythmic. Pure joie de vivre. He finished and sat there, facing the keys, not wanting to break the moment by turning toward the couch.

In the next moment, Cathy all but assaulted him, launching herself like a cannonball off the couch, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you," she said. "_Thank you_. That's the best present I've ever had." House quickly looked at her parents, sitting with the temporarily abandoned kitten, wondering how they felt about that statement, but they were both smiling, too.

"There's a CD in the envelope," he told her. "I recorded it last week for you. And I wrote down the sheet music." He saw the thought cross her face as she remembered the tempo and the rhythms. "It will take you a few years. But I think you _will_ be able to play it eventually. It will just take work. But for now, I also wrote it down as a piano-guitar duet. That's easier, and you and your Dad can start working on that one now. It's not _easy_, but it's easier."

She attacked him again. The kid actually had _tears_ in her eyes. "Thank you so much, Dr. House. Can I hear it again?"

"I really can't play the piano without having use of my arms," he pointed out. She reluctantly let go, skipped back across the living room, and sat down again, picking up the kitten. House played it a second time. The third time, she finally opened the envelope, setting aside the CD for later, and hungrily tried to follow it on the full version of the sheet music, even though it was, as he had predicted, way beyond her right now.

Jensen finally enforced a break, as the piano bench was starting to get to House. This one not only lacked his therapeutic cushion he had at home, but the bench had never been close to the quality level of his at home in the first place. This was simple hard wood, no padding.

The smaller cake, chocolate with cream cheese icing and decorated with musical notes, was admired and photographed. Jensen had already gotten pictures of Cathy with the kitten. He had even gotten a picture of House playing the piece, although House hadn't noticed. House himself stepped in as photographer at Melissa's request, getting a picture of Cathy and both of her parents (and the kitten), all standing behind the table with the cake and smiling into the camera. As Melissa pointed out, it was hard to get complete family shots when one of the family was wielding the camera.

After cake and ice cream had been served and devoured, Jensen got out his guitar, and he and Cathy worked some on the easier (but still not easy) version of the dance. It was just enough in reach to be clearly possible, just enough distant to be challenging. House settled on the couch with the kitten in his lap and gave them a few occasional pointers as he had a second piece of cake. Watching them work on it together, father and daughter, was another privately poignant experience, making him think this time not backwards but forwards, not of John but of Abby. Melissa took a few more pictures.

It was Jensen who finally looked at the clock and said, "You'd better hit the road back to Princeton pretty soon." House looked at the clock himself, startled. He couldn't believe he had lost track of time for the whole rest of the afternoon while he had been enjoying himself at a birthday party, of all things.

"Can you play it one more time for me first?" Cathy asked. He obliged, and this time, the kitten spoke up at the last measure, making them all laugh.

House shook his head. "I hope you all enjoy feline opera. You have a virtuoso in training here."

Cathy looked at the kitten. "Who wrote operas, Dr. House?"

"Lots of people. Verdi wrote all sorts of operas, but I never liked the Italians as much myself. Wagner; now he had some power and fire to it. Mozart wrote operas, of course. Mozart wrote everything."

"Mozart." She tried it out, testing the feel of it. "Is your name Mozart?" The kitten right on cue stood up, stretched, and yowled. Cathy smiled as her parents both flinched. "I think it fits him. What do you think, Dr. House?"

"Oh, he definitely looks like a Mozart to me. Mozart wrote at high speed, too. Right up until his death, he never knew how to shut up." He stood up a little stiffly from the piano bench. "I really do have to get going. I've got a date tonight. Happy birthday again."

Cathy came over to hug him one final time with Mozart along for the ride. "Thank you, Dr. House."

Melissa thanked him again, too, and Jensen followed him out to the car for a minute. "That was perfect," the psychiatrist said. "I really appreciate you giving it to her in person."

"At least I got some cake out of it," House deflected. Jensen smiled, hearing the unspoken thought behind it. "You have a nice family," House said suddenly.

The psychiatrist straightened up with pride. "I know. So do you."

"Yeah." The dismissive monosyllable still carried the full wonder of that fact. House tucked himself into the car.

"I'll see you next week," Jensen said. He headed back into his home, and House pulled out onto the road, his thoughts for the drive home a pleasant blend of families, cake, and music.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I really meant this one and the next as one chapter, but I ran out of time. This chapter: An evening with the Houses. Next chapter we get a little Wilson, a little Thornton, and more House, and it picks up a little. The whole story isn't a fluff-a-thon, although it's definitely not a Patrick-level crisis, either. Thanks for the reviews!

(H/C)

House paused briefly as he entered the door of his - of _their - _home. Ever analyzing, ever comparing data, he couldn't help wondering how a guest in their home, someone seeing it for the first time or two, would perceive his family.

There wasn't much time for reverie, as Rachel raced down the hall. "Dada!" She charged up to him, and he picked her up.

"Hi, kid. Miss me today?"

"Yeah. I made lunch!"

"You did? I'm sure Marina was very glad of the help. What did you make?"

"Sa'wiches! P, B, and J."

"Very good lunch. I've often had that myself."

Cuddy exited the bathroom at that point along with Abby, and his younger daughter ran up to him. She wasn't as fast or as balanced as Rachel yet, but the smile was just as wide. "Dada!"

"Hi, Abby." He set Rachel down and picked up Abby for a hug, then quickly moved over to the couch where he could hold both of them. Rachel promptly climbed back up, piling into his lap along with her sister. Cuddy sat down in the recliner facing him, a little impatient herself and wishing for more than a G-rated greeting, but she knew that the girls would be in bed within a few minutes, and the whole evening from there belonged to the two of them.

"How was the party, Greg?"

"Party?" Rachel picked up on the word, looking around the living room. "Where?"

He laughed, remembering Cathy in pursuit of her elusive and unintentionally disguised present. "We're not having one now, Rachel. I just went to somebody else's this afternoon." He looked back at Cuddy. "It was _odd_. Good, I guess."

"What was odd about it?"

He tilted his head, remembering, dissecting, and Abby tilted her head in imitation as she looked up at him. Cuddy bit back a laugh of her own and wished she had the camera with her. "There wasn't anything else going on," House said finally. "They were just enjoying themselves all together."

She felt a sad twinge inside at the hint of bewilderment in his tone. "That's what birthday parties are _supposed_ to be, Greg."

"Birthday party?" Rachel chimed in, right on cue. "Happy birthday to me!" Abby flinched away from her. Rachel's singing was probably typical for almost three, but it still had less tonality than her sister would have liked.

"No, Rachel," Cuddy said. "Your birthday is in about three months. It's in December, like Hanukkah and Christmas. We'll have a party for you with the family and maybe with Marina and Wilson and Sandra. Abby's birthday is in October, and we'll have one for her, too." They had had birthday celebrations for the girls in previous years, of course. The trouble was, though, that House so obviously was _trying_ at them, as if a good day were something that needed to be worked at in order to make sure it succeeded. Cuddy was glad that he had had the example of Jensen's family to watch this afternoon, a performance that could not have been rehearsed for him as his invitation had been such a last-minute thing.

"Cathy liked her song," House continued. "In fact, she nearly strangled me. She's a serial hugger."

Cuddy smiled. "I was sure she'd love it. I'm glad she got to hear it the first time from you and not from a CD, though."

Abby perked up. "Song? You play, Dada?"

At that moment, Belle jumped up onto the couch, and House, in renewed appreciation after Mozart's arias, extended a hand to her. She approached slowly, her ears progressively flattening, and then hissed at him. Her nose traveled across his clothes, her expression one of extreme disgust, and then she turned tail and stalked off. The reaction was so unusual from Belle, who loved House, that all of them stared, even the girls. A moment later, House realized the problem.

"The kitten!"

"What kitten?"

"Jensen and Melissa gave Cathy a Siamese kitten for her birthday, and I was holding him a few times during the afternoon, trying to keep him quiet. He insisted on somebody holding him at all times. He sounds like an air raid siren. Belle must smell him on me."

Cuddy laughed again, shaking her head. "She thinks you _cheated_ on her, Greg."

Rachel, meanwhile, had jumped down and was looking around the living room. "Where the kitten?"

"No, Rachel, he's not here. Believe me, we don't want this one here. Belle is the _only_ cat we need."

Abby, meanwhile, tugged at his arm again, not diverted from her goal. "You play?"

House saw Cuddy glance meaningfully at her watch and nod. The sitter would be arriving soon, and they would be leaving on their weekly Friday night date. The girls needed to be in bed by then, and music was one of the best ways to calm them. "Sure, I'll play for you for a little while." He carefully moved them aside and stood up. Belle returned to the couch as he rose, and she stood on the arm on the far side, glaring at him. "It was just a one-afternoon stand, a quick fling, didn't really mean anything," he promised her. "I'm a one-cat man, honest." He winked at Cuddy and walked over to his baby grand. Settling down with a grateful sigh into his therapeutic bench cushion, which was fastened to his padded-in-the-first-place piano bench, he started to play.

The music of the evening was deliberately lyrical, soft, a river of sound absolutely inviting the girls for an easy voyage on calm water, rocking them to sleep. Cuddy found it almost soporific herself, in spite of her own slight internal tension and her anticipation of the evening together. Rachel and Abby never had a chance. Even Belle grudgingly relaxed her posture of stiff disapproval and curled on the arm of the couch, blinking golden eyes in catly contentment. By the time the sitter arrived, House and Cuddy were carrying their sleeping daughters down the hall to the nursery.

Twenty minutes later, they were at a restaurant ordering, and once the waiter had left, Cuddy settled back into the chair with a sigh of release. House looked at her across the table. She was a little more on edge than usual tonight. Probably had had a rough session with Patterson; he knew how hard it was for her to admit to and work through issues in her past without considering them failings. The sessions were strictly forbidden bilaterally as a topic of questions, though. Either of them could volunteer details, but the other could not interrogate. And while those optional details were often in fact volunteered, it never happened on a Friday. Cuddy might have asked him about the birthday party, but she hadn't asked even one question about the session that had preceded it. He couldn't just ask her about Patterson. Of course, he could suggest and set up opportunities, but he'd save that for the weekend, giving her time off just to relax tonight.

He tried to distract her instead, his thoughts returning unerringly to the topic of family. "About that party. It was odd, like I said. Melissa had spent all day decorating a cake for today and one for the party with Cathy's friends tomorrow. You should have seen those; they were top quality. I've seen worse in stores. But I could tell she hadn't really been counting the hours. She just enjoyed doing it for her. That was her only reason, and it made it all worth it. And then Cathy came home. I swear, she reminds me of Rachel at 10."

Cuddy was relaxing quickly under the thoughts of family. "I haven't seen her as much as you have, but from your description, the enthusiasm is the same."

"You've heard the piece. That's Cathy; it's exactly like her. Boundless energy, and she can never just walk anywhere. She has the determination with the music, which Rachel doesn't, but other than that, they're a lot alike. And with Cathy, the music is going to have to be mostly determination. She doesn't have the real talent like Abby."

"Pure determination can take you a good way with some things, though."

"Oh, yeah. She'll probably be a decent player, having to work for it all the way, but determination alone can't take you clear to the top. She does have a lot of try at it, though. She and Jensen worked for a while on the duet version while I was having an affair with the kitten on their couch. It had mistakes all over the place, but she was still determined to get there. And she will, eventually." He smiled. "We do need to have special parties for the girls this year."

"I think that's a great idea, but you need to relax a little bit about it, too, Greg. The important thing is us being together, and we've already got that. You don't need to worry so much about making sure the day all works out."

He stared at her. "Excuse me, I thought I was having dinner with my wife. Can't be, though. Lisa Cuddy-House would never say to just relax and let an event happen instead of plotting and planning and administrating it."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Fine, so we'll _both_ work on relaxing and just letting it happen this year. I hope Rachel isn't disappointed that Abby's birthday comes first, though."

"It doesn't," House pointed out. "Rachel's birthday was first. She was born first, and she turned one and two first, will turn three first, and so on."

"Technically true, but I doubt an almost 3-year-old will see it quite that way." The waiter returned at that moment, and she sat back in her chair to allow him access as conversation stilled for a minute. "She's drifting more and more away from the music, isn't she, Greg?" Cuddy never actually heard piano lessons anymore, being always occupied with the other daughter.

"Slowly, yes. She enjoys hearing me play, and she likes banging around some, but she isn't really interested in learning how. She does love to run. The DVD did that for us, at least. She's not as frustrated now that she's seen me doing something else."

"Maybe that will make it easier for her to know Abby is doing well with the music. I was thinking about Rachel today, Greg, thinking about what she's good at and shows interest in and what it might turn into down the road. I think you're right on the sports."

"Of course, she's also not quite three yet. We've got plenty of time to work out her career options."

Cuddy took a bite of salad, chewing it thoughtfully. "I'm not working out her career options, and I'm not going to pressure her. I had enough of that when I was a kid. I'm just thinking out loud."

House perversely switched ground, exploring the topic himself now even after objecting to it. "She loves animals, too. She needs to work on a little bit of patience and less abruptness with them, but she has always responded to them. Maybe that will turn into something, too."

"Maybe," Cuddy agreed. "You're right; she does love the animals, and she never seems to get tired of Belle or the zoo. That doesn't wear off like the piano is. It is funny to watch Belle instruct her on proper techniques, though. You can tell that's what she's doing, too. But Rachel is learning it gradually. You picked out a good cat, Greg."

House shrugged. "You picked her out yourself, remember?"

"Sorry." Simultaneously on the word, they reached across the table to brush fingers for a moment, their own quiet salute to the phrase when a more vigorous one wasn't possible. "I forgot that was your cover story."

"It's the truth," he protested. "You were the one who said, 'We'll take this one.' Ergo, you picked her out."

Cuddy laughed again, relaxing nicely now. "That was hilarious how she was looking at you tonight."

House grinned himself. "Two-timing and caught red-handed. Caught red-scented at least. I have officially fallen from grace. You sure you still want me?"

She reached back across the table, picking up his hand, not just a momentary brush this time. "No question. I've finally got the family I always wanted."

He remembered the parting exchange with Jensen. He still wasn't sure why he had all of this at times, but he _did_ know what he had, a treasure he often took out privately to marvel at. He smiled at his wife across the table as he thought of her and his two daughters. "So do I."


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson finished loading the dishwasher, neatly wiped down the counters, and left the kitchen spic and span.

If only his life were in comparable shape.

Oh, life was _good_ these days in many ways, living here with Sandra and Daniel. Their son was three months old now and doing well after his rough start. Wilson loved watching Sandra as a mother; she was even more beautiful than before to him. The ex-wives were all but forgotten, and even Amber was a retreating memory. He would have been happy if only there hadn't been a layer of fragility still surrounding it all. It was eleven months since he had cheated on her, infected them both, and endangered their child's very life. It was three months since he had walked out and abandoned her and his son, albeit temporarily, on the night Daniel was born. He had made no major errors since, but Wilson was on edge.

Three months without a drop of alcohol. Three months of trying so hard to be there for Sandra and Daniel that it made his teeth hurt. Ten months since he had been in her bed, at least sober and while she also was in it, but he knew that he had only himself to blame for resetting the clock on that one; they had been making progress up until he ran for the hills. Still, how long would it take for him to prove himself to his family? How much more was left on his probation? Would they ever just be a relaxed family together?

He walked into the living room. Sandra closed the door down the hall softly, tip-toeing out of her bedroom. Hers and Daniel's. Not Wilson's. Actually, Daniel's little crib was on wheels and in theory alternated between their bedrooms, giving each of them a night off. In practice, he was more often in Sandra's. She would wake up when he did anyway, even if he were across the hall, just as Wilson often woke up when his son was with her, and they would usually get up to listen through the door and make sure the other was dealing with it and didn't need help. He was sure she stood many times outside his door, just as he had at hers. Taking turns with night duties while they were in separate bedrooms simply wasn't working. Eventually, Daniel would need his own room, but of course, when he was discharged from the NICU, they had both been too worried not to keep a very close eye on him. His lungs were greatly improved now, but they could not forget that he would have died without a ventilator being promptly available after his birth. For the two months he had been home, he had slept near one of them.

"Asleep finally?"

"Sleeping like a baby." She frowned and tossed her head, a brunette curl falling across her forehead untidily. She didn't brush it away. Wilson felt a pure longing looking at her that wasn't entirely sexual. He envied that curl, both for its proximity to her and for her easy acceptance of it. "Whoever thought of that phrase, anyway?" she complained.

"He's getting better," Wilson pointed out. "Thank God. I think we were both zombies for a while."

"At least I had the time off for his first month home after the month in NICU. You still had to work. It was harder on you." She sat down on the couch, stretching her feet out with a tired sigh, and ran one foot over the other in self-massage. She had been back at work for a month, and they had hired a nanny who came with sterling recommendations, referred by Marina. Sandra's job meant a lot to her - she was a born nurse - but Wilson knew the adjustment had still been difficult for her with some guilt involved.

He walked over to the couch, sitting down tentatively beside her. "Sandra?" he asked.

She looked over at him, catching the serious tone. "What is it, James?" Her posture was open, at least. Straightforward and honest, she would listen to him and then give him an answer.

He hesitated. What if he suggested that he move back into her bedroom, not for sex but just for better sleeping and childcare division? That way, the not-on-duty partner would only have to open one eye for reassurance, then roll over and go back to sleep. He did think it might work better. But would she believe that he wasn't thinking about sex? Well, at least not mainly about sex, although the hope had, of course, occurred to him that this might accelerate the relationship rehabilitation. But really, they were both getting run down on this schedule, trying to ensure that all was well in a different room while also trying to sleep.

But if she agreed, _could_ he share a bed with her and not push her on sex? Would his body listen to his intentions? Jensen did think she would remove the restriction in her own time if Wilson waited and proved to her that the family, not just the sex, was important to him. But the psychiatrist had also recommended strongly not to push her on that point, to let her come to it.

And what if she didn't agree to his suggestion even nonsexually? What if he tried to openly talk about an issue affecting them, as Jensen had recommended to him in countless therapy sessions, and she shot it down or it just made things worse?

She was still watching him, head tilted slightly, curl still misplaced across her forehead. "What's on your mind, James?" she asked.

He dodged. Better to bring it up fresh at the beginning of a day, not at the end of one. "Want to watch a movie?"

She looked away, toward the blank TV screen, and he didn't see the quick flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Sure. Something light, though. It's been a long week."

They agreed on a chick flick, a genre which Wilson had always enjoyed himself and which House often had ribbed him mercilessly about. Sandra fell asleep before it was over, and Wilson fought to keep from joining her, his own eyelids heavy. He didn't want to waste time asleep himself with her head fallen onto his shoulder, though. Those were precious moments when he could pretend that nothing had changed, that it was back before last year, before he had come so close to throwing it all away. But they really were both getting too tired. Hopefully they could catch up some tomorrow if their son cooperated. Weekends were better.

How much longer was it going to take to be a normal family?

Daniel woke up. With a sigh, Wilson carefully edged out from under Sandra, propped her head on the couch cushion, and took one second to brush that curl back. Then he stilled the DVD and went to check his son. Daniel's smile of welcome pushed back some of his own weariness. For once, Sandra slept on for a while, a tribute to exhaustion. Friday night was the lowest point of the week physically, a whole work week along with chopped-up nights stretching since the last weekend catch-up. But by the time he had the baby changed, rocked, and hummed softly back to sleep, she appeared in the doorway. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes. Still caught in the hazy otherworldliness of the dream, it took him a moment to orient himself. Cuddy's warm presence against him drew him back to the present, and he gave a contented sigh and tried to settle back into sleep. It eluded him, though. The dream kept processing through his mind, like a differential, chasing something that he knew was there but whose identity he hadn't pinned down yet. He hadn't raised the dose on the sleeping pill last night and had just tried concluding not to have a nightmare, which seemed to have worked, but that dream had been _strange_. Finally, he gave up and gently sat up, trying not to disturb his wife. Sitting on the side of the bed and rubbing his leg into compliance, he looked over at Cuddy, dimly visible in the flow of the street light through the window. His lips quirked suddenly into a smile as he realized that Belle was curled up against Cuddy, on the _far_ side. The white cat usually slept against or on top of House when she chose to sleep on the bed. Tonight, she had pointedly put Cuddy as a buffer between them. She was watching him; he could tell even in the dark.

Grinning, House carefully stood up. He leaned on his cane and waited for the bite of his leg, then for the resignation of the mutilated muscles and nerves. Eventually, he slowly limped forward out of the bedroom. A quick trip through the main bathroom, a not-so-quick check on the girls, and finally, he found himself in the living room. He looked at his piano, wondering if it would disturb her to play.

His piano. Could Thornton truly be behind the gift of music in his childhood? He switched on a lamp and sat down on the couch, studying the instrument. Without that one respite, he might truly have gone insane under it all. Could the man he had always blamed have in fact been responsible for saving him?

Belle jumped up on the far end of the couch. She must have exited the bedroom unnoticed when he did. She studied him with unblinking golden eyes, then with obvious and pointed duty walked forward slowly. Her ears were still partly back, but she climbed into his lap, arranged herself carefully on his leg, and looked up at him with a questioning trill. The message couldn't have been plainer. She hadn't quite forgiven him, but she wasn't neglecting her own responsibilities just because of his unfaithfulness.

House chuckled and scratched her under the chin. "I'm okay," he said. "Just thinking a little. Nothing's wrong. And I swear, the kitten didn't mean anything at all to me. I was only kitten-sitting for a few minutes while other people were busy." He sat on the couch for a while longer, stroking the cat, and both of them gradually relaxed, but his eyes were still on the piano, seeing the other one from his childhood.

"Greg?" He looked up as Cuddy came around the corner of the couch. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong exactly. I just had an odd dream and couldn't get back to sleep, so I was thinking for a while. Didn't want to wake you up."

She sat down next to him. "You don't have to think alone, Greg."

"Actually, I wasn't. Belle joined me, although she made it perfectly clear how magnanimous she was being by this."

Cuddy smiled, but she didn't let the more interesting subject drop. "An odd dream?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Not a nightmare. It was just . . . _strange_. I don't usually have foggy, disconnected dreams like that. Definitely wasn't a nightmare, though. It wasn't bad, just weird."

"What was it about?" She sounded determinedly awake.

"I was young in the dream, I think. It's all _hazy_. Like I was in the middle of a cloud. But it wasn't from my childhood, not a memory. I knew that right away, because I was apparently at a birthday party. There was a cake and presents in front of me, and I was looking at them. I knew I could have them. It wasn't a trick or a trap. Just a birthday party."

Cuddy looked at him. "Maybe your mind took Cathy's and plugged it in. That's actually how most people dream, Greg, just bits of pieces of this and that they ran into through the day making an appearance in their sleep."

"Probably."

"A party, you said. Was anybody else there?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure who. That's where it's all hazy. There _were_ people around, but not close to me, and I couldn't see them. They didn't seem familiar. It was like a camera lens that's out of focus; nothing except for me and the cake and presents was clear. All the people were at a distance, and I wasn't paying much attention to them. I didn't _have_ to worry about them. I was more interested in the cake." He grinned. "That part definitely must have translated over from Cathy's party. Very good cake." The smile faded into analysis. "It wasn't a nightmare, like I said. Not bad, just odd. But it woke me up, and I couldn't go back to sleep."

"Did you get a piece of dream cake, at least?"

"No. I woke up first. But I was sure that I _would_ have had a piece of cake if I'd stayed there. Didn't feel like it was all going to evaporate or turn into sawdust or something."

She snuggled up against him. "I'm glad you had a pleasant dream to analyze, Greg, but when I came in a minute ago, you didn't look like you were thinking about birthday cake."

He tensed up. She didn't give him a further nudge, just waiting, available if he chose. "I was thinking about Thornton," he said finally.

"Did you get another message from him?"

"Mmm hmm. Yesterday morning. I had asked him last time to name one thing he ever did for me when I was a kid. I thought he'd spout off some excuse or something." Or maybe, he had thought, actually not reply at all, having no answer.

"Do you want to tell me what he said?" Cuddy asked when he stalled for a minute. She was trying not to pressure him, but she could feel her curiosity kicking into high gear on that one herself. Obviously, Thornton had had what at least on the surface seemed to be a valid answer to the question, not just an excuse.

House looked back over to the piano. "He said _he_ bought Mom's piano for me and paid for all of my lessons." She felt the impact of that on him, even second hand. She stayed silent, her arm around his shoulders, and Belle kneaded his leg softly. "How could he have done that?" he burst out after a minute. "There wasn't just one teacher involved. The first one, yeah, was a good friend of hers and might have acted as an intermediary, but at other places, there were piano teachers she didn't know at all socially. And John _bought_ that piano for her; he was proud of that, because he got it for just $50."

He felt her skepticism and looked at her. "I know, I know. Even back then, that's a ridiculous price for a piano. But we didn't have internet and online bank transfers in that day and age, and John ran all the finances. Mom didn't even have her own bank account. He gave her grocery money each week, counted it out to the dollar. They would have really had to work to set up some kind of private money exchange back then without ever getting John suspicious, and there aren't many options. And Mom would have had to keep the secret for decades, too. Thornton is sneakier, but even being a conspirator to that extent would have pushed her."

"She kept the secret of your paternity for decades," Cuddy pointed out. "At least, she thought she did."

"So you think he's telling the truth?" he challenged.

She kept her voice level. "I think that in an odd sort of way, it makes sense, especially given Thornton's father. I could see it happening. But you're right; that took a lot of work to set up if they did do it."

"And _he_ probably handled the logistics, not her," House snorted. "But that would mean . . ." He trailed off, but Cuddy completed the sentence. That would mean that Thornton had actually been involved, even back then, had done as much as he could for his unacknowledged son. He hadn't simply not cared about him.

They sat in silence for a while, and then she finally risked a reply. "What are you going to say to him, Greg?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if he's telling the truth. If he's lying to me about _that_, he just burned his bridges totally." His tone had a defiant edge, like he hoped Thornton was lying, but she could tell he didn't truly believe it.

"You could ask Blythe for details."

"No. She doesn't even know I'm talking to him. Did you forget that already?"

"I hadn't forgotten, Greg. But eventually, she's going to know. At some point."

"You're assuming I'm going to _keep _talking to him and ultimately let him in. Because that's what you think I should do, right?"

She sighed. "I like what I've seen so far of him, but it's your choice, Greg. I've told you that before; it hasn't changed. I'll support you whatever way you go with him." He studied her, gauging her sincerity, then relaxed a little. They were silent for a little longer; Belle's purr was audible in the quiet room, as was the tick of the clock on the wall. Finally, Cuddy risked a comment. "Just remember one thing. This is something that Patterson mentioned yesterday. We were actually mostly talking about me, about the things done wrong when I was growing up, and how that affected me, even now when things are better with Mom and Dad. How I worry about avoiding those mistakes with our girls. It was a tough session. But Thornton somehow came into it at the end. I was saying people can't just do things over to fix the past and how hard it is to go on sometimes and build new ground even with some of the past not resolved. Patterson used Thornton as an example to bring up a point, although it was a general point. It wasn't just about you." She paused until he looked at her. "He's in his 70s, Greg. My parents aren't as young as they were once, either. None of us are. You haven't got 50 more years to decide what you want to do here. That's not about who was right or wrong in the past; it's just a fact of time. If you wait too long, the choice is taken away from you."

He stiffened up again. "Nice shrinkish illustration, but I never signed up for this choice in the first place," he snapped. Cuddy left him alone and didn't point out that he had been the one to initiate email contact. He was just pushing back, like a reflex; he wasn't really mad at her. The point that she saw so clearly here and wished he could bring himself to admit was that _he_ wanted to get closer to Thornton. It wasn't about what she thought he should do in this situation; he wanted it himself. He was just scared, and she couldn't blame him. She had pushed him enough for tonight, though. She massaged his left shoulder with her arm around his back for several minutes of silence, and he didn't pull away, even if he was more tense now. Finally, he looked around the living room at the clock. "Speaking of tempus and how it fugits, we're going to lose the chance to sleep much more tonight if we don't get back to bed."

"Would you play me the serenade first, Greg?" she asked.

He moved the cat aside and slowly stood up. He had been sitting still there long enough for his leg to object, but she didn't comment on his awkward gait as he limped the few strides to the piano. He settled into the piano bench cushion and looked at the instrument for a long moment before lifting his hands to the keyboard. His piano. This one was _his_ and had nothing to do with anybody else's deceptions in the past. He started playing, and by the time he finished the serenade, he was looking at Cuddy, not at the piano.

"Thank you, Greg," she said. She stood up. "Come on, let's go back to bed."

He looked from her to the piano and back. "Give me five minutes," he requested.

She accepted it - although she mentally promised herself to give him ten and then return if he wasn't there yet. "Okay. I'll be in the bedroom."

She left, and House sat there studying the piano. Patterson's thought reminded him of something Jensen had said, that Thornton was not leaving and that House himself would have to decide either to leave or to actually start communicating instead of challenging him.

If Thornton had given him the music, not just genetically but literally . . . but _how_?

He stood up and limped over to the desk, taking out his laptop.

_Funny, that's not how I remember things. The piano was a gift from John to Mom, and I never saw your name on the gift tag anywhere. John must have missed that part, too, if it's true. Of course, you could just be lying, making up something to sound good. If you're lying about music, that's the last mistake you're ever going make with me, and remember, I _can_ verify this with Mom if I thought it was worth the time. If you made that up, don't even bother keeping up this charade. Just leave; you're good at that, after all._

He hit send, signed off, and then limped back to the bedroom where Cuddy was waiting.

(H/C)

Saturday morning, Thomas Thornton checked email first thing when he got up. Ah, he had a reply already. He had very quickly realized that Greg was deliberately replying on different days each time, trying to avoid a pattern, so he hadn't expected a reply yesterday, but this was an early one this morning. What Greg presumably didn't realize was that his replies, while on different days, had been coming progressively earlier in the day over the last month. He might reply on Saturday or Sunday instead of Friday, but it would never now be late at night. Thornton had never been trying to rope Greg into a pattern anyway by his own predictability; he had simply been establishing himself as reliable, something to count on, the emails hopefully something Greg would come to look forward to.

This email nearly had smoke coming off the screen, but Thomas had a smile on his face as he finished reading it. Oh, that revelation had definitely touched a nerve. Greg pushed back harder when things were getting emotionally uncomfortable for him, but Thomas could also read the unspoken curiosity between the lines as to just how that had been accomplished.

Thomas didn't mind the hostility. He could take it, and he felt that he even deserved it in many ways. That the communication existed at all was a step forward, but slowly, over the last two months, he could sense a little progress. He had been following the recommendations of Jensen, the psychiatrist, that he not jump too quickly into either redefining the past or asking details on the girls. He had kept his replies pleasant and minimal at all times, not getting into details of ancient history, never matching Greg's tone. His last email had definitely been the farthest out on a limb he'd stepped so far, but Greg had asked the question, after all. Thomas had been eagerly awaiting this reply, hoping it hadn't been too soon to open a can of worms that large. If Greg had backed off and not replied at all or replied more slowly, that would have been a bad sign, but a scathing response early on the first non-patterned morning available was actually good.

It was time to take their exchange up to the next level, something Thomas had longed to do sooner, but he had waited, trying to be patient, getting a framework established first. He knew a real relationship between them had to be Greg's decision, but for the first time in two months, after this reply, Thomas felt like he could risk a little more.

It was time to change the rules and apply a nudge of his own to his son.

Mentally reworking his day, he headed for the kitchen to make coffee.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! Here's the next update. Couple of notes. First, about posting time, yes, this one might well have a few more days in between chapters. It all depends on RL, which is nuts anyway and has potential to spontaneously get nutser, as it demonstrated today. I'll do my best, but my best could easily vary a little. Also, somebody asked who all knows about Thornton's visit to Patrick's lawyer. Actually, House hasn't been shown talking to anybody about it, since he just found out himself in the last chapter of Verdict. Legacy starts two months later. So you didn't have any scenes discussing that. I think it's very safe to assume that he has mentioned it to Jensen and also to Cuddy, but I can't see him sharing it around further than that, and in particular, I don't think he would have told Thornton he knew about it. So Thornton doesn't yet know there was a specific catalyst for why House decided to start talking to him, if you can call House's emails that. To this stage, his communications haven't been very conversational; he's just poking at Thornton, testing him out himself. Thornton's next reply in their ongoing exchange will indeed be a doozie, but you'll have to wait a few chapters for it. Thornton communicates on Tuesday. It's now Monday, fic time. Here's a short update with a new twist introduced.

And if anybody could spare a thought or two for tomorrow, Sunday, I'd appreciate it. Very rough day shaping up.

Enjoy the next bit of Legacy.

(H/C)

Mid Monday morning, House sat at the conference table constructing a paperclip chain as his team threw out potential cases from the ER logs.

"Heart attack in a previously healthy 30-year-old who had no prior medical history."

"Obviously, he was wrong." House wound his paperclip chain into a spiral. "Next!"

"Rash over the arms and legs, accompanied by . . . "

House cut Taub off ruthlessly. "Accompanied no doubt by exposure to poison ivy or something similar. What a coincidence." There was silence for a moment, and he looked up from his paperclips to Kutner. "You dropped the ball there, Tonto. It's your turn."

Kutner hesitated. House had more prickles than usual for Monday morning; he was mentally chewing on something and hoping to distract himself with work. Their latest patient, nicely challenging, had been solved about noon Friday, and House had pointedly given himself, but not the team, the rest of the day off, simply leaving. He'd been rather Housish Friday morning, but the patient's condition before diagnosis had justified the snaps. But since he had returned more tense this morning, some aspect of his weekend was unresolved. Kutner hoped his family was okay, but House didn't quite have _that_ kind of tension in him.

Unfortunately, he hesitated long enough for House to realize that _he_ and not a potential patient was now the object of the younger doctor's differential. House pushed back abruptly from the table. "You're useless, all of you. Can't even find _one_ good patient in this hospital. Kutner, you just volunteered for 10 extra clinic hours this week."

"Hold it." Kutner had started to get up, resigned, to face his punishment, but Cuddy's voice froze the scene. She marched in, briskly administrative, and put a file in the middle of the table. "Congratulations, you now have a patient. Get busy."

House tilted his head, his eyes meeting hers in challenge. "I doubt it. If there had been interesting and unusual symptoms, you would have led off with those to catch my attention. Since you're just saying he's our next patient but not giving a case history first, the relevant case history is found in his bank account, not in his medical files. Trouble is, money is usually very boring. I'm sure you can find a lot of other doctors in the hospital who disagree with me, though, so go bug them."

Cuddy sighed. "He _is_ an interesting patient."

"To you and probably to the IRS, but not to me." House picked up his paperclip chain and headed for his office next door.

"It's Brendon Castleton, Jr.," Cuddy called to his retreating back.

Taub sat up slightly. "Castleton Enterprises?"

"Exactly, although that was his father's company. He just inherited the business a few months ago. Do you know who his father was, House?"

House reached his office and entered, still not facing her. "I'll take a wild guess and say he might have been Brendon Castleton, Sr. Wow. That took a diagnostic genius." He let the glass door swing shut behind him.

"Sorry." Kutner couldn't resist apologizing, although Cuddy of all people was used to House. "He's in a bit of a mood for some reason this morning." Cuddy's eyes immediately softened slightly, and Kutner immediately confirmed that Cuddy knew the exact reason House was in a bit of a mood. "Are the girls okay?" Kutner asked, just double checking. Cuddy herself looked perfectly healthy.

"They're fine." Her tone sealed off further inquiry into personal life. "You three, pick up that chart and head up to the patient. He's on six. Full history, basic labs, get started. I _do_ think there's something here, something besides his father's money." She turned toward the office in firm dismissal, and the three doctors eyed the chart in the middle of the table.

Foreman was the first to move. With a shrug, he picked it up. "Come on," he ordered. Taub rose just leisurely enough to emphasize silently the point that Foreman wasn't his boss. Kutner followed them out of the conference room, looking back at Cuddy. She had reached House's desk by now. He still looked stubborn, and she still looked determined. As Kutner was watching, she felt his eyes and turned to glare at him. Quickly, Kutner faced front and followed the rest of the team toward the elevators.

(H/C)

Cuddy turned back to the desk after dismissing Kutner. "You haven't heard from Thornton again yet, have you?" He'd told her over the weekend he had replied asking for details, his tone even with her enough of an indication of how he'd asked for details.

House looked at his closed laptop. "Haven't even checked this morning." There was no point; he knew Thornton emailed Tuesday mornings. "And drop the sympathetic understanding front. He _isn't_ bothering me."

Cuddy obligingly switched subjects, although she was sure Thornton _was_ the main thing bothering House right now. The mystery of the piano and lessons was still unsolved, and she also thought that House felt a little guilty for how he had phrased his reply, although he never would have admitted that. She hadn't read the emails herself, but even secondhand, she could tell that Thornton had been a model of patience so far. House, stuck trying to start a fight, was more and more feeling his status as the only armed contestant on the field. "Greg, this really _is_ an unusual case."

"And also an unusually rich patient, one who just _might_ be inclined to write an unusually large check to the hospital in exchange for a diagnosis. Tell me you haven't thought of the financial benefits," he challenged.

"Okay, so it _did_ cross my mind once or twice." House snorted in disbelief. "But that doesn't change the fact that he needs a doctor." She straightened up, stepping into her administrator persona. "And _you_ are the best doctor in this hospital."

"Flattery will get you nowhere - at least not at work. In fact, I'm miffed. Only the best doctor in the _hospital?_ So there are others just as good in this state, and it's a small state." He stood up right under her nose. "I'm. Not. Interested." Turning, he opened the balcony door and stepped outside.

Cuddy stuck to him like a bloodhound, and he really could only retreat as far as the wall, anyway. She came to a stop as he did. "I apologize." She stuck with the professional version, not saying she was sorry right now, not on a work point. "You are not only the best doctor in New Jersey but the best in the country, the hemisphere, and the world. But you are _still_ an employee of this hospital. We've had a few rich donors die lately, Greg. We need some young blood to come in. It's a perfect opportunity to make a good impression." She gave a quick glance over at Wilson's office, just in case. There was a patient visible in the office, both of them standing at the x-ray board. Great, Wilson was busy. She didn't want him to interrupt them or House to use him as a decoy. Turning her back toward the oncologist and facing her husband, she continued. "He's been feeling off for the last few months. Fatigue, occasional mild dizziness. Not sleeping well. General sense of impending doom."

House shook his head firmly. "It's called _grief_, Lisa. You said that his father died a few months ago. I'll bet these symptoms started at the same time, right?" Her silence confirmed it. "Psychosomatic expression of grief. He needs Jensen, not me."

"He also has had microscopic hematuria," she stated, playing the best of her light hand of cards at the moment. "That's an interesting response to grief."

"UTI," House suggested. "Bor-ing."

"That's what the _other_ doctors he's seen thought," Cuddy countered. House _hated_ being lumped in with the world's other doctors. "But he's had antibiotics just in case. No effect. Just look him over, Greg. If it's a simple case, it's solved quickly, and I'll get off your back."

He grinned suddenly. "I can think of other positions I'd rather have you in."

"So can I. But _now_, at _work_, I need you to check out this patient. It might even pay dividends for you later."

The corner of his lip quirked. "Ah, the bargaining card that you now get to play since we're together. You think you can bribe me at work with the promise of sex?"

She shrugged. "Whatever works. Take the case, and we'll have a night just to ourselves, the girls out with the babysitter, just us and the hot tub. Maybe some romantic candles."

"Remember my gender, Lisa. Candles are a woman thing."

"But they put me in a good mood." He considered the possibilities of that, and she switched back to administrator. "Seriously, Greg. I'll fully admit that my radar isn't anywhere close to yours, but believe it or not, I don't just hand you the chart of everyone over a certain income bracket. I think there's something here."

He did trust her instincts to some extent, although he didn't say so. He sighed. "It had better be a perfect night to ourselves, then. No phones," he insisted.

She chewed her lip for a moment, then reluctantly nodded. "No phones. Just the two of us, with the doors locked, phones off, and the girls gone. Nobody else around - except Belle, that is, and she can go vanish. Cats are good at that."

He put on a mock serious look, but the light of mischief sprang to life in his eyes. "As long as I haven't been sleeping around again; if I had, she'd find it necessary to stay on the edges and stare just to remind me of my sins. I'll have to be careful from now on not to slip. Hell hath no fury like a scorned cat."

Cuddy straightened up in her own exaggerated disapproval, picking up the game, glad to feel his mood lightening a little from preoccupation with Thornton and childhood music lessons. "You've had fair warning, Greg. That kind of behavior isn't going to be tolerated again. You're lucky to have been forgiven once."

"Oh, that point was made _perfectly_ clear, don't worry. I swear, though, I didn't mean it. The whole affair was an accident. I didn't plan it; it just happened. The situation got out of my control."

"Well next time, you don't get distracted when you're with someone else, and you keep remembering what you have back at home." She gave him a light smack on his left arm. "Cheating will _not_ be tolerated. You control yourself from now on, or you might not be allowed back in the house at all the next time you come home from some random party. Just keep your hands to yourself, and you won't get in trouble again. Now, get back to work." Her eyes were locked with his, and his mood was improving by the moment. He did love a game.

He turned away. "Geez, I already apologized. Just like a woman, making a big deal out of one minor slip. It didn't mean anything to me; there was no emotional attachment there at all." He limped toward the office again, and she quickly caught him.

"Women are _jealous_, Greg. Keep that in mind. And there was cause to be jealous here. You totally forgot about part of your family while you were out having a good time." They reached the office door together, and she opened it, letting them both through. "It was hilarious to watch her, though."

He smiled. "That it was. Still, I'll be more careful next time." He dropped into his desk chair and picked up his thinking ball.

"Get to _work_," Cuddy reminded him.

"I am. That's what I have a team for, to do the personal details. You didn't say I had to meet him, just diagnose him."

Rolling her eyes, she turned for the door. "I've got a meeting at lunch, remember. See you tonight, Greg. Love you."

"Love you, too," he replied. She left the office, and he tossed the thinking ball, then turned slowly to look into the conference room, starting a whiteboard list in his mind for this rich, grieving wimp who probably had nothing at all wrong with him.

(H/C)

Wilson pointed to the shadow on the x-ray. "The size has decreased significantly with the radiation, Mrs. Sutler. We can go ahead and schedule surgery now, I think. I'll send a note to the surgeon to make you another appointment to update the consult, and he'll be in touch."

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Wilson. You're always so helpful and optimistic. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without you." She turned away from the x-ray box and, in picking up her purse, noted the picture of Wilson, Sandra, and Daniel on the other wall where the Vertigo poster had hung for so long. "You do have a beautiful family, Dr. Wilson."

"Thank you." He squirmed slightly inside his suit, even though he agreed with the sentiment. Looking around for some distraction, he abruptly noticed House and Cuddy out by the wall. They were clearly deep in some conversation, and the topic wasn't pleasant. She had on her lecturing posture, and he had on his stubborn air. Odd that they had taken it clear out there for extra privacy, though, if it was just some standard hospital misdemeanor he'd committed.

Mrs. Sutler walked back over and shook his hand. "I'll see you next time, Dr. Wilson. And I'm sure you'll be around after the surgery. I really do feel like I'm going to beat this. Of course, the family helps. They're what really keeps you going through the rough times. I'm sure you're already finding that out yourself, even as young as you are."

"Right," Wilson replied. He fought the urge to loosen his tie. "See you next time, Mrs. Sutler. The surgery department will call you, and I will be sure to drop by when you're admitted, too."

She left the office, and Wilson walked back over to look at the picture of himself, Sandra, and Daniel. He hadn't suggested any changes this weekend, and they had caught up on sleep. He felt much better today, at least physically. Maybe he'd talk with Jensen about it on Wednesday first. He squirmed again and wondered if they would ever be a family like Mrs. Sutler thought he was part of, one like hers.

Restless, he turned away from the picture, straightened his desk needlessly, and looked at the clock. Twenty minutes until his next appointment. Might as well get an early start on the day's charting.

Unless. . . Wilson sidled over surreptitiously to look across the balcony. They were still there, totally wrapped up in their conversation now. He suddenly wondered what House's latest stunt at the hospital had been. Something large enough to demand a private reprimand on the balcony, not just a public rebuke. Wilson wanted to know what House had done, possibly even collect some material to rib his friend about later. Slowly, he crept to the door, alert for any catching of attention, but even House wasn't noticing him at the moment, completely focused on his wife, and neither of them were facing his direction anyway. Wilson opened the door and listened as hard as he could, and they were hardly whispering. The words came to him clearly.

"You've had fair warning, Greg. That kind of behavior isn't going to be tolerated again. You're lucky to have been forgiven once."

"Oh, that point was made _perfectly_ clear, don't worry. I swear, though, I didn't mean it. The whole affair was an accident. I didn't plan it; it just happened. The situation got out of my control."

"Well next time, you don't get distracted when you're with someone else, and you keep remembering what you have back at home." Wilson saw her actually reach out and hit him, about as hard as you would hit a handicapped man, anyway. "Cheating will _not_ be tolerated. You control yourself from now on, or you might not be allowed back in the house at all the next time you come home from some random party. Just keep your hands to yourself, and you won't get in trouble again. Now, get back to work." She was glaring at him, obviously mad.

House turned toward the door to his office. "Geez, I already apologized. Just like a woman, making a big deal out of one minor slip. It didn't mean anything to me; there was no emotional attachment there at all." He limped away, Cuddy followed, and Wilson took a step or two out onto the balcony, staring after them.

"Women are _jealous_, Greg. Keep that in mind. And there was cause to be jealous here. You totally forgot about part of your family while you were out having a good time."

They entered the office, and the door shut behind them, sealing off the rest of the lecture.

Wilson stood frozen to the spot in disbelief, his mouth literally hanging open. At a distance, though the glass, he saw Cuddy leave, and House sat there tossing his thinking ball, obviously in deep abstraction, then looked toward the conference room, apparently glad the team hadn't seen this. It was a few minutes before the oncologist managed to close his mouth and make his numb feet turn to walk back to his own office, but House never looked his way.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for the thoughts for Sunday. Could have been worse, though definitely could have been better. The facility and I are having some issues with Mom at the moment. Here's more of Legacy, with Wilson industriously digging himself deeper. This Wilson plot actually does have a serious resolution to it, but I do enjoy playing with it on the way there. :)

(H/C)

Brendon Castleton, Jr., was not happy.

That much was apparent even before the team entered the hospital room. His voice carried well into the hall. "As long as I'm out of here in just a day or two. I _must_ spend this weekend working on that bid for the new contract, and Forest is trying to come in ahead of us."

A woman's voice came with that _I'm trying to be soothing and reasonable while this man is simply being stubborn_ tone which women have down so well. "Brent, we really need to find out what's going on here. You'll feel much better, and the work will go a lot smoother once this is treated. You don't need to worry about the company so much right now."

"If Dad heard you say that, he'd roll over in his grave. He left me one of the top companies in this field, and it's going to stay that way. He didn't build it out of nothing by not caring about the work."

Foreman led the charge into the hospital room. Their patient had his full attention on his laptop and a worried frown on his face. Two women, presumably mother and wife/girlfriend or possibly sister by the ages, were at the bedside, but Castleton was much more concerned with the laptop at the moment than with his support system.

"I'm Dr. Foreman, and this is. . ."

Castleton cut him off ruthlessly, still buried in the laptop. "I understood that we were getting _House_. That was the whole point of coming here."

The older woman stepped in, still with her reasonable tone but also with the edge of someone used to getting what she wants when the wallet is produced. "We _were_ expecting Dr. House. His reputation is unparalled, and I have read in the papers this summer how observant he is. I knew that he could help my son."

"We work with Dr. House. He's up in his office right now thinking about the case." Foreman carefully didn't specify _what_ he was thinking about it. "Dr. Taub and Dr. Kutner and I usually do the exams and testing on his cases, but he is definitely involved behind the scenes in finding the diagnosis."

"Oh, yeah." Castleton reluctantly closed his laptop for the moment, resigning himself to the team. "Makes sense, I guess. I forgot that he's a cripple."

Kutner cringed and was suddenly glad that House wasn't with them. If he had been, he would have been heading back out the door right now, Cuddy or not, and the primary diagnosis assigned would have stopped at "asshole."

The wife/girlfriend/sister narrowed down her identity by running one hand along the patient's arm with that specific type of physical awareness that exists between lovers. "Brent, they're just trying to help you. I'm sure Dr. House realizes how important this is."

"Exactly," Foreman said. "We're trying to help you. So, Mr. Castleton, when did your symptoms start?"

"We gave Dr. Cuddy-House the records so far," he protested. "It's in there. Repeating all of that is a waste of time."

"Dr. House likes to start fresh from the beginning on history," Kutner said. "Sometimes other doctors have failed to pick up on things or ask the right questions. Building on someone else's mistake slows down our process."

Castleton looked impressed for the first time. He pushed the laptop a token 3 inches away. "Not bad. All right, we'll hit it all again. Back a few months ago . . ."

(H/C)

By the time the team arrived back up in Diagnostics to give House the first thumbnail of the case (assuming Cuddy had convinced him to take it, which they were), House was in the conference room already. The whiteboard had been labeled at the top $$ Jr. Below that were three lines.

Grief - Psychosomatic Overlay?

Stress - Big Shoes to Fill with Company

Mic Hematuria

House looked up as they entered, and he stood from his seat at the table and went to the whiteboard. "So, while you all have been meeting the rich and famous, I looked up Big Bucks, Sr., online and found his obituary, then checked out the company. This is getting a little more interesting." House had also briefly checked email, but there was no reply from Thornton yet, which didn't surprise him. Thornton would email tomorrow morning.

"There _are_ some physical symptoms," Taub said, "but the other two are probably valid points. Splitting them apart is going to be a challenge."

"Definitely work stress," Kutner chimed in. "He's practically attached to his laptop, and he was fretting the whole time about needing to get discharged quickly to work on some contract bid this weekend that his top competitor is also going for. He's only 23. Getting handed a multimillion dollar company that young is enough to give anybody stress. I don't think he'd even be getting worked up if it weren't for his mother and his girlfriend pushing him. He doesn't think he needs to be here."

House made a game show buzzer noise. "Wrong answer but thanks for playing. The fact that he agreed to admission for workup is what makes me think there might actually be a legitimate medical problem underneath." They looked confused, and he switched into a tone of extremely exaggerated patience as he explained. "Common sense says that he has to be frantically learning the ropes on this company; even if Daddy Bucks was grooming him to take over eventually, the training wasn't finished. Bucks Sr. couldn't have meant to drop dead of a heart attack at 45 three months ago. So Bucks Jr. has been thrown into the deep end of the pool abruptly. There is no way he'd jump from seeing a few doctors outpatient for presumed UTI to agreeing to a diagnostic inpatient admission that takes him away from the company right now unless he was having several more medical symptoms than he's willing to admit. I don't care what his girlfriend is saying; that's jumping too many steps on the ladder to be done purely under duress. He probably hopes he's wrong, but he does think there might be something significant that's physical."

The team considered that. "He might have been protesting a little too much on the nothing really wrong physically bit," Kutner admitted.

"Right." House added another column. Denial/Fear. "Okay, let's assume that he is having more physical symptoms than he's admitting, but he isn't going to tell us all of them, at least not yet. He _does_ think deep down that he needs to be here, but he's still stalling on full details."

"Could be lying, too," Foreman added. "His mother and his girlfriend were glued to his side. Maybe he doesn't want to admit to more in front of them."

"Good." House added Lying next to Denial/Fear. "One of you three will have to distract the women while another asks him again alone. But meanwhile, down to the symptoms, what does he admit to?"

"Tiredness, general malaise, dizziness a few times. Not sleeping well, energy level down. His appetite has been off lately. He _has_ massively jumped up work hours and stress since his father's death. He's seen a few doctors just in the office. The first said he was stressed and grieving and offered an antidepressant; he took it two days before dropping it. He said he couldn't work on it because it clouded his thoughts. Second doctor did basic lab work and found microscopic hematuria. Prescribed Cipro for a presumed UTI."

"And what follow through?" House asked.

"None," Foreman confirmed.

House shook his head. "Idiot doctors. No culture? No repeat UA? No ultrasound when things didn't get better?"

"No return appointment at all. Jr. took the Cipro and just kept working. He did try a third doctor, someone he ran into at a business lunch and just mentioned that he didn't feel better after Cipro. That one wrote him amoxiciillin without any kind of exam or tests, just a prescription across the table at lunch. He took that, no change."

"Any GU symptoms he's admitting to?"

"No, and he says the hematuria was never anything more than microscopic. He wouldn't have known without the UA."

"Yet he jumped from casual prescriptions at a business lunch to a full-scale inpatient diagnostic admission. See what I mean? There _are_ other physical symptoms; he just doesn't want to admit it, maybe to himself, maybe to his women. Okay, you need to distract the women, get a _solo_ history, full lab workup, including blood and urine cultures. Ultrasound of the kidneys. Ultrasound the whole abdomen while you're at it, just to snoop around. We might do an EGD later if he can put down the laptop long enough for Versed; he's a prime candidate for an ulcer. And get a treadmill test. 23 would be awfully young to have cardiac symptoms, but Sr. did have a massive MI pretty young. Besides, the treadmill will wear him out nicely if his energy levels in general are down. Take a private history _after_ the treadmill while his tongue is still hanging out. Maybe he'll be more honest then. Go. Do."

The team stood up from the conference table and started out, all except for Kutner. He walked over to the whiteboard. "House?"

House nailed him with a _don't even think of returning to your differential this morning_ glare. "What?"

"Just wanted to warn you, if you do happen to go see him yourself, the mother read the papers this summer." House sighed, but they had run into this with several patients lately. He did appreciate advance notice over walking into it blind, though. Kutner continued, remembering the cripple comment. "And the patient himself is kind of a jerk."

House came to attention. "Really?" He added Jerk to the whiteboard.

"That's a symptom of illness?" Kutner asked.

"Sometimes. Usually not, but it _can_ be. How do we know now which one it is?" House added a hyphen, making the line now read Jerk - Congenital vs. Acute.

Kutner smiled. "Right. It hadn't occurred to me as a possible symptom. Well, I'll head off testing." He turned toward the door, glad that House was in a better mood now than earlier and speculating on exactly how Cuddy had gotten him into it.

House looked at his watch. "And _I_ will go let Wilson buy me lunch."

(H/C)

Wilson had managed to get through his next appointment fairly undistracted, he thought, but once that patient left, he sat down at his desk with his head in his hands, fighting the spinning thoughts, trying to instill some order.

Shock was first, of course. House and Cuddy were so made for each other; you could almost see the sparks between them. How could his friend possibly have stepped out on that? Furthermore, House didn't even sound terribly repentant, simply claiming that he hadn't meant it to happen, that circumstances just got away from him, and that it hadn't really meant anything, no emotional attachment involved.

Wilson couldn't help hearing the echo of himself, knowing that he had used every one of those lines in the past. Had he sounded as shallow, as trivializing as his friend had? House still wasn't seeing this as a big deal. He didn't realize what this could _do _to a relationship, something that Wilson had been to graduate school on in the last year. Not only the broken trust, but there was legitimate physical risk. Had he at least used protection?

Then there was the anger. Because as much as House's attitude had rankled with Wilson, Cuddy's did even more. Yes, she had been mad, and she was being sure House knew it, but it was also clear that he was already forgiven. Any consequences were phrased into some hypothetical next time that he might not be let back in the house. "You're lucky to have been forgiven once," she had said. In _one_ weekend, House was forgiven, when Wilson himself had been groveling and doing penance for almost a year. That was so completely unfair. He wished Sandra had been here to eavesdrop, too, and hear Cuddy's approach.

On the other hand, Cuddy couldn't possibly have dealt with all her own feelings on this. Jensen had been the one to say back last November that a response too quickly from Sandra to Wilson's cheating would only show that she hadn't processed it completely. Cuddy was jumping over this fault and burying her own response, probably for the sake of the girls, and House was taking advantage of it. He hadn't even especially looked guilty, just miffed at being caught. No, words aside, neither of them had really dealt with this yet, and they needed to, for their own sakes, plus the indirect effect on Abby and Rachel.

But still, House so casually getting away with it, Cuddy just accepting it with some harsh words and warnings for next time, annoyed Wilson. And it sounded like House had simply gone to some random party over the weekend. House hated parties in the first place; why on earth would he be at one without his family, and why would he forget about them there just because he saw some hooker or casual flirt? At least Wilson had had an excuse; he had been going through a tough time with Danny back when he cheated (the most recent time, a small voice whispered, and he stuffed it back down). But he had been under direct stress at the moment then, which is why he had gotten drunk. House was doing pretty well since the trial.

Wilson's agitated tie-fiddling suddenly stilled in thought. Wait a minute. Did he know that House didn't have an acute stressor lately? They still spent time together, had a guy's night out now and then, met at lunch, but there was no denying that the relationship had changed from what it once was in the era BC, before he and Cuddy were an item. Sometimes, Wilson even missed those earlier days. Their friendship had a different flavor now. But what if House had had something he was dealing with and hadn't been able to talk to anybody? Wilson was probably distracted lately with Sandra, Daniel, and lack of sleep.

His father, most likely. Wilson knew that he had been emailing with his biological father; he'd asked House point blank once if they had communicated at all since the trial, and he received a short reply and a change of subject. He hadn't tried to dig any further, but what if House really needed support in this? What if something _was_ acutely bothering him, and he hadn't been able to talk to Cuddy for some reason, and his best friend had been distracted and not paying attention. Had he gone to the party trying to just forget about it briefly, much as Wilson had gone to the bar at the hotel that night?

Anger and judgment could wait; it was quite possible, Wilson realized, that what his friend really needed was his support at the moment in his feelings about Thornton. The oncologist knew that he couldn't possibly ask outright about what he'd heard and question House on the cheating. To do that would be admitting eavesdropping in the first place, and House would grab onto Wilson's minor fault there and use it to evade discussion of his own major one. But a little gentle prompting and questioning how things were going lately, especially with his father, would be a much more sympathetic approach, gradually leading into it, being the available ear that his friend apparently needed. And later, once the chips were all on the table, Wilson could give some advice related to Cuddy, but right now, he just needed to focus on how House was doing lately with Thornton, especially in the last week leading up to his slip.

Still shocked, still angry on a deep level, but truly concerned now and feeling a little steadier, Wilson checked his watch and stood up to go offer lunch. His friend obviously needed him.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Here's a short bit more of Legacy. Today is my birthday, by the way. I'd love a review!

(H/C)

House was already in the hall heading for Oncology when Wilson exited his office. "Perfect timing," House said. "My stomach was going off."

"I could hear it from my office." Wilson studied him. House looked as usual on first glance, but probing a little deeper, looking behind the front, he thought he could detect some tension underneath it.

House stopped walking toward the elevator and pointedly returned the survey. "What? Do I have a wart on my nose? I can't have a clashing tie, since I never wear one."

Wilson took a firm grip on himself. "No. I had a tough morning so far; going for a routine lunch is just a change of gears. Want to go out somewhere?"

House eyed him. Wilson wanting to go out of the hospital for lunch was usually the leadup to some conversation he wanted to be private. "Any specific reason?"

"I just thought it might be nice to talk a little. We haven't seen each other as much lately."

House shrugged. Maybe his friend wanted to talk about Sandra, which they did now and then, usually on the "how much longer do you think I'll be in the dog house" front. "Sure. You actually look awake this morning." Not only awake but worried, in fact. "Did the kid decide to start sleeping through the night, or did you just catch up on sleep for the weekend?"

"He's not too bad," Wilson said. "But yes, we caught up on sleep this weekend." Together, they headed for House's car, which was parked closer in his handicapped spot. As House pulled out heading for their favorite corner grill, Wilson made his first gentle, probing inquiry. House wouldn't want to talk about his father while eating; Wilson would have to make his availability as a friend apparent on the drive there and back. "So, how are things going lately?"

House glanced over at him before looking back at the road, and Wilson was abruptly reminded of a microscope. "How are things going lately? Since when do you get into trivial small talk? If you want to say something, just jump in as usual."

Wilson sighed. His friend wasn't going to make this easy. "Like I said, we haven't talked as much lately. I've been worn out with Daniel and preoccupied on other things, and when we do talk, it's either been just pure recreational chit-chat or Sandra. I just wondered how your life is going. Anything new?"

House stopped at a stoplight and looked over. "What is with you today?"

House was dodging. Wilson sighed again and pushed a little more. "Are you still talking - no, emailing - with your father? Or maybe you have moved on to talking by now."

House tensed up immediately, and Wilson could tell that yes, there _was_ something bothering him there, something recent and acute. His tone confirmed it, pure ice. "I don't _have_ a father."

"You know who I mean. Just wondered if you're making any progress."

House slammed on the brakes and then made an illegal U-turn, though he did look behind him first. A car honked, and House flipped him the bird; the man had been a safe distance away. "We are _not_ going to have Thornton as a lunch topic. Go judge - or care, if you want to call it that - somewhere else."

Wilson closed his eyes briefly. House had sped up, heading back for PPTH. "I'm not going to judge, House. If you need to talk about him, I'm here."

"Considering that one of the first things you ever _said_ to me about him after he turned up was why didn't I just talk to him like normal people would, I'd call that judging. Unless you think the background here is normal like everybody else has. If so, you're delusional."

"Is that comment why you never talk about him to me? I'm . . . I apologize, House, okay? I didn't mean it to come out like that. You can talk to me about him - or anything else you need to. I'm here."

House turned into PPTH. "Thanks for lunch," he said, sarcasm dripping off the tone. He pulled into his place, opened the door, and got out as quickly as he could, limping toward the hospital without a backward glance. Wilson sat in the car, shoulders drooping. There was _definitely_ something bothering House about Thornton, but the oncologist hadn't realized that comment from a few months ago still rankled. He was more convinced than ever that House needed to talk, though. His lapse was becoming more understandable with this much suppressed stress behind it. Wilson would give him a chance to cool down, then try again more gently.

House stormed into PPTH at his fastest limp, and his leg's protest didn't help his mood much. By the time he got to the elevator, he had no choice but to slow down and lean against the wall as he was carried up toward four. No one else was in the elevator, which gave him a few minutes to replay that conversation and analyze it past his initial reaction. Wilson had been especially uptight and pushy today. House's eyes focused abruptly. His friend had also been turning the conversation off himself and Sandra at every opportunity, as if he wanted to avoid it. That was a change, as he actually _did_ talk about her with House, usually initiating the subject himself. Today, it was suddenly out of bounds.

With concern now mixing in with the anger, House limped out of the elevator toward Diagnostics. He hoped Wilson hadn't done something else stupid with Sandra.

(H/C)

Kutner was talking to the patient's mother. The girlfriend was there, too, but the mother naturally dominated the room when the two of them were together and would automatically be the first one to answer. "Sometimes people around the patient have noticed things that he himself hasn't picked up on, so talking to the family separately can add new symptoms for us. I'm sure you know your son very well, and you are obviously observant. What has concerned you about him lately?"

Mrs. Castleton had straightened up and smiled slightly at the compliment. Kutner had already picked up on some of the same entitledness, even if more politely expressed, that her son had. There might well be some congenital jerk in the mix here, as well as any acute. "It's hard to say when it first started. He just seemed _tired_ all the time, and the long days would wear him down more than I thought they should have."

"Hard to say when it started? He said it was about the same time as your husband's death. Do you think it could have been earlier?"

She considered. "I have wondered that in retrospect. I do think it might have been coming on for a while, but of course, the grief and then taking over the company increased all the demands on Brent."

Kutner made a mental note. He wasn't sure this woman would ever admit that she didn't know something; she would try to come up with _some_ information if asked. Still, she was his mother, and her opinion here was relevant, even if possibly padded. "Has he seemed more irritable to you lately?"

She tightened up a little there. That was just a bit close to criticism for her. "He's been under a lot of stress," she stated.

"Yes, of course. It would be perfectly understandable if he was. But it can be medically relevant, too."

The girlfriend chimed in there. "He _has_ been snappish lately. More than usual." Mrs. Castleton glared at her at the implied criticism in that usual.

"Thank you. Again, we're just trying to diagnose him. This could help us. Have you noticed anything else about the tiredness?"

She thought for a minute. "He hasn't been exercising as much lately. Could just be the schedule, but he never seemed to have energy for it even when he had a few minutes."

Or was having physical symptoms when he did that he would rather ignore by avoiding them, Kutner thought. "Did he exercise regularly before?"

"Not fanatically or on any kind of schedule, but he did enjoy a good pick-up ball game or taking a walk."

At that moment, Kutner's pager went off, and he looked down at it. _Castleton passed out at treadmill test._

Well, they had been looking for new symptoms. "Excuse me," he said to the family, and he quickly headed for Cardiology.

(H/C)

By the end of the afternoon, Cuddy had a prime headache. She rubbed at her temples and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. What a hell of a day, not only dealing with Castleton and his family but with a few other rich, entitled specimens along the way, as well as some standard administrative snarls with extra knots just to keep her on her toes. At least House was firmly into the Castleton case now. Still, thinking back through her day, she wondered if he had any idea how _few_ rich donors or potential donors she passed along to his attention.

A tentative tap came at the door, and she looked up to see Wilson, looking oddly uncertain. "Got a minute?" he asked.

She forced herself to reply civily, although she was down to her last nerve on work problems on this day. "Sure, Wilson. What's wrong up in your department?"

He walked across to the chair but didn't sit down. "Nothing acute. I just wanted to talk to you about a few things in the budget for next year. Has it been a day with lots wrong in it so far?"

She sighed. "_Everything_ has been wrong in it. Don't want to bore you with the details, though."

"It's not a bore. If you . . . if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

"Thanks, Wilson, but I doubt you'd be much help with . . ." At that moment, her cell phone rang, the plain ring tone and not House's or Marina's. "Damn it, _shut up!" _she snapped. "Lisa Cuddy-House, may I help you?" The contrast in tone between those two statements could not have been more marked, though her expression proclaimed that she was about ready to flush the phone in her private bathroom if one more person called her today.

Wilson gave her a sympathetic smile and silently turned and withdrew. He'd just wanted to take a sounding on her state of mind. Yes, Cuddy was very much on edge and trying to blame work for it; she had actually had her head in her hands when he knocked. He _had_ to figure out a way to get House to talk to him. He'd strategize tonight, then try again more diplomatically tomorrow with his friend.

Back in the office, Cuddy's expression softened a little as Jensen spoke. "Hello, Dr. Cuddy. I need your email address. I've got the pictures from Cathy's party Friday, and you'd especially like one of them, I think."

She smiled. "Thank you, I'm sure I would. And thank you for being possibly the first person today to get immediately and efficiently down to the point without wasting time first and for wanting to do something for me instead of vice versa."

The psychiatrist chuckled. "One of those days, is it?"

"Right from the start." She rattled off her email address as he wrote it down. "Thanks for calling _me_, too. I'll see it a lot faster this way. Greg isn't much for pictures."

"I know. The only reason this one turned out so well is that he didn't know I was taking it. Well, I won't use up any more of your time. Hope your evening goes better than your day has."

"I'm sure it will." They hung up, and she eagerly turned to the computer, forgetting the pile of paperwork, and watched email. The message landed promptly with attachment, and she opened it up.

House was playing the piano. Jensen had been sitting somewhere off to the side, and he had captured perfectly the expression and posture, the softening under the curmudgeon exterior as House was wrapped up in the music and forgot about the world briefly. Cuddy spent a good five minutes just looking at it. Finally, she sent back a quick reply thanking Jensen and complimenting him on the shot. Then she glanced at her watch, pushed the paperwork away, and pulled her cell phone back out.

House answered on the second ring. "Hi."

"How's it going?" She had talked to him about an hour and a half ago, and the case had been progressively complicating itself then.

"Bucks, Jr., is stable. He just passed out from the exertion, even though Foreman had stopped the test. I want to do more cardiac testing, but his family insisted on letting him rest tonight first. He's definitely heading for kidney failure on the labs, not to dialysis stage yet, but very abnormal, especially for a supposedly healthy 23-year-old. Ultrasound of the kidneys doesn't show cysts, so it's not fibrocystic kidney disease."

"Think you'll be leaving soon?"

"Yeah. He's interesting, but he's not critical. We need to do more testing tomorrow. Maybe a kidney biopsy, but they didn't want that tonight, either. The mother kind of freaked out when she found out he collapsed."

"Imagine a mother doing that," Cuddy said dryly. "Well, I'm about to leave for the day. Problems here but nothing that won't wait until tomorrow. See you at home in a little while, okay?"

"See you then."

"I love you." Their standard sign-off.

"Love you, too." He always said it a little quickly and softly, as if still marveling at or analyzing it, but he did say it.

She hung up, admired the picture for a few more minutes, then stood, glad to be leaving the hospital after a rough day with definite prospects of her evening going better than her day had. In spite of work hassles, life was good.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Again, sorry the updates on this one aren't as quick, but RL has lots going on. T minus two chapters. :) Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House never got tired of the pure wonder of coming home, though he wouldn't have admitted it to anybody else. It was a private treasure, to be turned over slowly in his mind like a diamond, watching the different facets of it and the interplay of light against its surfaces. For too much of his life, his mind had been filled with darkness, but there was light now, and the dazzling sparkle of what he had often amazed him.

The girls, coming pounding to greet him, Rachel the faster in the lead, Abby never failing to do her best just because her sister outran her. Cuddy, following the girls from the kitchen to meet her husband with a welcoming smile. Even the cat marked his arrival and would come to greet him soon enough, although she stopped to needlessly polish a flawless white shoulder in feline nonchalance, emphasizing the difference between her and his impetuous daughters.

House set Rachel down and picked up Abby for a hug and kiss, then turned to his wife. "Last but not least," he noted.

"Better not be." She kissed him. "Welcome home, Greg."

He studied her as she released him. The tightness around her eyes was a dead giveaway. "You've got a headache, don't you?"

She sighed and rubbed vigorously at a temple as if the motion could reach through the skin and erase the pain. "A little one."

"Uh huh. No chance, Lisa; I'm the genius diagnostician, remember? Headaches are Dr. Seuss level reading for me, and this isn't a little one."

Rachel perked up, inserting herself into the conversation as she recognized familiar words. "Cat in the Hat? Green Eggs n' Ham?"

Cuddy grinned in spite of the low-level drill behind her eyes. "Not right now, Rachel. Maybe after we eat. Right now, I was deciding what to fix us." She turned back toward the kitchen, shoulders drooping a little. Cooking wasn't her favorite activity anyway, even though she did it reasonably well. Tonight, the stove loomed like a mountain, but she had family responsibilities, after all. Dutifully, she started forward.

"Hold it!" House called after her. He set Abby down for faster limping and quickly caught up with her. "How long have you had it? Any other symptoms?"

"A few hours, and no. No big emergency here; I've simply had a hell of a day at work. It's purely work-induced, and in a little while, it will be gone."

"But I'm being good and working on that case," House protested. Even during the banter, he was also watching her eyes, counting her respirations, running a silent diagnostic checklist.

She smiled at him, realizing what he was doing on both levels. "Believe it or not, you aren't the only part of the hospital hard to deal with at times. You've had a _lot_ of company today. The only person even remotely efficient was Jensen."

That distracted him momentarily. "Jensen? When were you talking to him?"

"He called at the end of the afternoon to get my email address. He got a great picture of you Friday at Cathy's party, and he thought I'd appreciate it. Which I did." She saw his puzzled look as he tried to remember when Jensen had gotten a picture of him. "You were playing the piano."

The light dawned. "Ambushed. That's no fair."

"It's a neat shot, Greg. I'll show it to you later." He rolled his eyes. As she had commented, he _wasn't_ much for pictures and especially didn't like looking at ones of himself. Only recently with a few family shots had that attitude started to soften. Through so much of his life, pictures had represented only falsehood, either the illusion of a family or the illusion that he was doing fine on his own, and he had made a practice of avoiding them whenever possible.

Predictably, he changed the subject. "So the headache is just a typical tension headache? No worse? No unusual location or symptoms?"

His concern touched her. "No, Greg. It's just work, and there's no mystery why I have it. Like I said, it was a hell of a day."

"Hell day," Rachel echoed.

Cuddy sighed again as House grinned. "So what have you taken for it?" he demanded. Her expression was reply enough. "Let me guess, nothing. You just got annoyed at it instead, lectured it on intruding into your day, felt weak for letting yourself have one, and pushed on determined to finish this hell day on your own without any artificial assistance, just to prove to yourself and the world that you could."

"You do know me," she confessed.

He turned and limped into the kitchen, opening the upper cabinet that contained a few OTC supplies. "Here, Lisa. Tylenol. It's a great invention; you take it for headaches. Would have worked better if you had taken it a few hours ago when things started, but it will help even now." He shook out two and got her a glass of water, knowing she didn't just gulp pills dry as he did. "And after you take this, you're going to go back to the bedroom and lie down." She started to protest, and he continued quickly. "Just until time to eat. 20 minutes of down time in a quiet room and a few pills ought to help a simple tension headache."

"But we need to eat."

"I'll fix it."

"And the girls . . ."

"The girls will help me." He looked down at his daughters, enlisting them as allies. "Want to help me get dinner ready, girls?"

"Yay!" Rachel shouted as Abby gave a simple, "Yes," but with a smile along with it that was pure sunshine.

"Dealing with both of them plus cooking is a lot, Greg. Why don't I just lie down on the couch, and that way. . ."

He cut her off. "Nope. You'd lie there supervising. You don't need to supervise; you need to get away from supervising for a little while, lie down and do nothing, and give those Tylenol a chance to work." He pushed at her shoulder, turning her around, and started to herd her gently toward the hall. "Back to the bedroom. Come on, Lisa. You'll survive 20 minutes out of the loop, and you'll feel better."

Three minutes later, she found herself in the bedroom, lying down, with a cool cloth that he had fetched placed over her eyes. House had firmly shut the door, and she lay there wondering what was going on in the kitchen, but she grudgingly had to admit, the stillness and solitude of the bedroom and the temporary relief from closing her eyes did help as they started to soak in, and her muscles began to relax. The headache began a slow retreat, even while she made a mental note that she would hold him to his "30 minutes, tops" promise on food, and if he didn't come back to get her by then, she'd head into the kitchen to help him. He was in for an adventurous cooking session, having promised both girls they could actively assist.

Rachel and Abby headed for the kitchen as House followed more slowly after closing the door, but he stopped at the couch, picking up the cordless from the end table. "In here, girls."

Both of them looked confused. "We help?" Abby asked.

"Absolutely. You'll be very valuable to me. Come here." They piled onto the couch happily, one on each side, and snuggled in. Belle jumped up on the arm of the couch and gave him a supervisory look. "I know what I'm doing," he assured her. "No spying for Lisa, now. Okay, girls." He pointed to the on button. "Hit that, Abby." Abby hit it, and House caught Rachel's hand in time to prevent double force. The dial tone droned. "Patience, Rachel. We take turns. Okay, Rachel, watch very carefully. This is important. Hit this one." Rachel hit the designated key, and the phone beeped. "Right here, Abby." Abby was next, precisely on her button. Rachel followed, then Abby again as he led them digit by digit through the number. He held the phone out between them and ran the volume up so they all could hear the ring.

"Pizza Parlor, may I help you?"

"We'd like to order two pizzas."

"Yay! Pizza!" Rachel's vote was definite - and audible, even at the other end.

House gave his phone number, which of course was well known to their database. "Okay, Rachel, tell him we want one medium veggie lovers." He held the phone to her face.

"One med-e-um veggie lovers," she recited carefully.

"And Abby, tell him we want a large meat lovers."

"Large me' lover."

"Thank you, girls. Couldn't have done it without you. Got all that?"

"Yes, sir. We'll be there in about 20 minutes." The martyred worker gave him the total and hung up. House pointed out the off button on his end, and Rachel pushed it.

"Good job. You just helped me fix the whole meal. How about that?"

Abby snuggled in against him. "Music?"

"Not right now," House apologized. "I'll play you something after we eat, okay? But right now, your mother is lying back in the bedroom trying to relax but also worried about us cooking out here. The pizzas are a surprise. If she heard music, that kind of gives it away, since it's hard to cook and babysit and play the piano all at once. She'd have to come check it out."

"Mama okay?" Abby asked.

"She'll be fine." Once the Tylenol kicked in and she got a break - both of which she should have self-administered much earlier in this afternoon.

Rachel suddenly looked thoughtful. "Dada, what's hell day?"

House laughed. "It's just a very bad day. Things going wrong. She had that kind of day today at work, where everything went bad, so she needs to rest a little while. We need to keep quiet for her until the pizza, and then we'll all eat that. She'll feel better by then."

Rachel nodded wisely. "Pizza make hell day well." Her brief philosophical moment complete, she looked toward the door. "Now?"

"Not yet. About 20 minutes, actually 17 or 18 now. We'll just have to sit here and wait for them, okay? What did you do today?"

"No hell day." Rachel launched into an impossibly extended account, toy by toy, and Abby leaned against him contentedly. Belle came closer, gave him a sniff inspection, and then, satisfied, added herself to the lap pile and started to purr. House, looking down at them, suddenly thought that no picture in the world would be adequate to capture moments like this. They failed to show all the good, even as they had failed to show all the bad previously. He was glad Cuddy appreciated Jensen's sneak-attack photo, but as for himself, he took private memories, and these days, they had many carats.

(H/C)

_Greg sat impatiently, pinned in place in the high chair. The cake was just out of reach. There were presents, too, but it was the cake that held his attention. He had gotten a brief lick of the spoon while it was being made, whetting his appetite for the final product. There were people here; he could hear them, but he couldn't see. A blanket of fog surrounded him, and they moved in it, indistinct shadows, their voices almost sounding underwater. The fog didn't make him nervous, though. He didn't have to worry about them, whoever they were. No, the important thing at the moment was the cake, and it and the presents alone were clear, just in front of him. He knew that he would get them eventually, but he was also ready for eventually to be now. He stretched out a hand again, but his arm was still too short. Somebody laughed in the fog, a warm sound, not threatening. There was a surge of light suddenly, like lightning in the fog blanket - or like the flash of a camera. _

House opened his eyes onto darkness. He was in his house, in his bed, with his wife. Belle was there, too, pushed against his leg, a feline heating pad on low.

That same dream again, and damn it, he still hadn't gotten down to enjoying a piece of the dream cake. He sighed and lay in bed for a few more minutes before slowly getting up, trying not to disturb Cuddy. (He had no choice but to disturb Belle, who gave him a flick-lash as she moved over.) Cuddy was sound asleep. Her headache had indeed been much better after her time-out with Tylenol, and a soak in the hot tub later had added to the cure. Still, she needed rest. House looked in on the girls, went through the bathroom, then limped to the living room with Belle a white shadow. He switched on a lamp and sat down, and she jumped up to join him, still pausing for a sniff first.

"I'm innocent," he assured her. "You're the only cat in my life. I've learned my lesson; I'll never do that again." That reminded him of Wilson, and he worried for a while about his friend, hoping that he hadn't stepped out again on Sandra. House would have to ask him about it. Gradually, inexorably, his thoughts were pulled to the subject of Thornton. House sighed, and Belle gave a questioning meow. "It's nothing. He's not bothering me."

Only he _was_ bothering him, and as many times as House denied it, the fact remained unchanged. How the hell could the man have arranged the music for him? The deception would have extended for years and through several different locations. House looked at his watch, confirming that yes, this was Tuesday now. Thornton would email him this morning, giving him the answer on the music. Hopefully. Come to think of it, House hadn't point blank _asked_ him how that had been done. He'd simply challenged the fact that it was. Suppose Thornton didn't read the implied question.

Maybe he should ease up a little bit in his communication style, as Jensen had said. But damn it, the man _had_ abandoned him there in the hell of his childhood. Music or no music, Thornton remained the sole person he had ever asked (indirectly) for help, the one who had responded by laughing at him and telling him he was where he belonged. Piano lessons still did not atone for that. How could anybody have thought he was better off with John?

But nobody had known about John. Not Thornton, not anybody.

But Thornton _should_ have. And so should Blythe, House was finally acknowledging. Still, her culpability did not remove Thornton's. They had both let their son down. Two months of emails could not erase 50 years of abandonment.

House pushed the cat aside and stood up, tired of thinking about his father and what had and hadn't happened long ago, as well as what had and hadn't happened in the last two months. He felt oddly guilty lately on that subject, and he had no reason to be. He had done nothing wrong with his father, had given him no more and not even as much as he deserved. But the man was so damnably patient, it was getting annoying.

And House was making himself dizzy on this subject. He limped to the kitchen. If he couldn't have dream cake, he could at least have real ice cream.

He was just dishing up a bowl of chocolate when Cuddy appeared in the doorway wearing her robe. "Cravings get stronger in the second trimester," he commented, patting his stomach. "They woke me up."

She rolled her eyes. "Nice try, Greg. If you're pregnant, leaving aside gender impossibility for the moment, you're about the leanest second trimester I've ever seen."

"That's why I need ice cream." He got out a spoon for himself, offered her a second one, and they sat down at the table, the bowl of ice cream in between them. "How are you feeling?"

"A whole lot better. Sleep finished getting rid of the headache. Not that I've had a full night's sleep yet - or you, either." She pointedly looked at her watch. "Did you have that dream again?"

House dropped the front and simply nodded, taking a spoonful of chocolate. He did wonder how that dream cake would taste. It looked richly chocolate, nicely moist.

Cuddy studied him for a moment. "Maybe you ought to tell Jensen about it."

"Oh, yeah, I can just hear that exchange now. Okay, Super Shrink, something's badly wrong here. Instead of nightmares, I'm now having _good_ dreams, perfectly peaceful ones where nothing terrible happens. We have to do something to stop this."

"You're having _one_ specific dream, Greg, and you've had it three out of the last four nights. Maybe it would tell him something on analysis."

"Chocolate cake. I wonder what Freud would make of that one." He took another mouthful. "I will confess that that's what made me get the ice cream, though. If I can't quite reach the dream cake, might as well have some real chocolate once I wake up. Besides, Jensen and I have enough else to talk about. No point in wasting time here."

He didn't say Thornton specifically, but Cuddy was sure that was what he meant and what formed the main topic in his sessions lately. She knew he was talking about Thornton with Jensen and was glad of it, but he rarely mentioned the man with anyone else. She was taking Patterson's advice here, trying not to push on what was justifiably an enormous issue for him, not interrogating him, just being available if he wanted to take the initiative on talking to her, holding her own opinions without flying them from a flagpole and only giving them when asked. Sometimes he did talk about Thornton, always with the tone a little sharp as if daring her to disagree with him, but she recognized and appreciated the trust that he brought it up at all. He couldn't be pushed, not on this subject.

They finished off the bowl in silence, House visibly waiting for the questions that never came. Finally, as they finished, he said softly, "Still haven't gotten an email from him, but I should soon. About the music." The antecedent for him was assumed. House had never mentioned the precise schedule of Tuesday and Friday mornings at a specific hour to her, and he didn't intend to, at least not yet. If she knew that, she wouldn't be able to resist checking with him 10 minutes later on those days, not questioning, just getting a reading on him with that silent concern she did so well.

"I'm curious about that myself. Did they have Western Union back then?"

"Yes, but there was also John to deal with. She wouldn't have been able to have money of her own, not except for very briefly, almost immediately handing it to somebody else. He kept too close track of things in that household." He shivered, his throat suddenly much colder than the memory of the ice cream would explain.

Cuddy stood up and kissed him, her warm presence pushing away the ice. "I hope you get your answer, Greg. If you want to tell me what it is when it comes, I'd be glad to listen. But right now, I think the answer is more sleep."

"Probably." He was relieved to change subjects, marveling again at how both with his past and now with Thornton, she let him choose the bite sizes to offer it to her. He stood up. "That damn dream really is perfectly harmless. There's nothing wrong in it at all, except that I can't reach the cake, but there's also this certainty that eventually, I _will_ get it. I just haven't stayed asleep long enough. By the way, tonight, there was something new. I think somebody was taking pictures. That's probably proof that I'm just recycling the memory of Cathy's party and other random elements. You talking about Jensen's picture obviously dropped that one in."

"That makes sense, but still, just think about telling him Friday. Okay?" She quickly moved on, not parking there, knowing that it would just get his stubborn up if she did. "Do you want to see that picture, Greg?"

He yawned dramatically. "No, especially not at 2:30 a.m. We need to go back to bed, like you said." He limped down the hall. Cuddy switched out the lights and followed him. Spooned against each other with Belle's purr reverberating in the dark room, they quickly found sleep again, and the rest of the night was undisturbed.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: A very short update, all I had time for. Take it as you can get it, folks. Remember that House and Cuddy _do_ have each other's permission to be a topic in their respective private sessions. Next chapter: House checks his Tuesday morning email! We are heading for my favorite moment of the story soon.

(H/C)

"So what do you think?" Cuddy asked. She had pushed it into work Tuesday morning, citing clean-up from the previous day's problems which she wanted to tackle without headache now. True enough, but she had also called Patterson first thing once she arrived, hoping to catch the woman before she got tied up with her appointments for the day. She was in luck; Patterson had just gotten to the office, but her first appointment wasn't for half an hour. Cuddy gave her a quick summary of as much of the situation as she knew. "Am I overreacting here? Is this just some perfectly harmless, routine dream that he has stuck for some reason?"

"No," Patterson said definitely. "Not only is it repeating, but it wakes him up, and he has to get up for a while before he can go back to bed. His mind is clearly trying to tell him something."

Cuddy felt slightly vindicated, although even more concerned. Ever since her meltdown at the beginning of the summer, she had to double check with herself if she was really reacting rationally and in proportion to situations, especially those involving something possibly wrong with House. The anxiety was getting better slowly, but it would take her a long time to forget the bitter taste of losing self-awareness and judgment as completely as she had. "What do you think the dream means?"

"I'm not sure. He's also not my patient." Patterson heard Cuddy's soft sigh. The other woman needed to talk through this instead of just worrying about it. Patterson reminded herself that this was under confidentiality and let herself go on to speculate a little. Besides, she did have her own professional curiosity that enjoyed a workout. She'd think of it as a sort of mental morning calisthenics.

"What I mean," Patterson explained, "is that I'm working on incomplete information. Michael could do this a whole lot better after this much experience in how he thinks. Anything I say right now is tentative and possibly completely wrong. But just on first hearing it, I noticed that it's full of all sorts of family symbolism, of course, and the fact that he can't actually _see_ the family, just is aware of them behind a curtain, so to speak, is telling. The thing that grabs me most, though, is that every time so far, it's been an incomplete dream. He wakes himself up, almost like a protective measure. I have to wonder if he's afraid of the end of it."

"He really doesn't seem bothered by it. Not just that he's saying so, but he really isn't. It's not like the memory nightmares. In fact, he says that's how he knows it's not a memory, because nothing bad is going on, and he's not worried something's about to. Plus, of course, that he never did have birthday parties, not innocent celebration ones, anyway. And he did go to Cathy's birthday party right before this started. He's a little annoyed about never reaching the cake, but he insists that he knows he will eventually."

"Given the kind of dreams he usually has, rerunning abusive memories, this kind of symbolic dream probably is a relief to him. He might not even be that familiar with the type, since he hasn't normally dreamed like that throughout life. Still, he's resisting something with it. His fixation on the cake when he can't see the people or what's going on around him is a dodge, I think. It's those hidden surroundings I'd be looking toward to get the real meaning."

Cuddy considered that. "You know, that's a good point. Normally, having something clearly hidden would drive him nuts. I can't see him just sitting in a room with something going on in some fog or behind a curtain, like you put it, and simply discounting that and saying it's not important. His curiosity just isn't there with this. That's very out of character."

"I think there's something about whatever this dream means that he's resisting, and subconsciously, he already knows it."

"So you think it _does_ have a bad ending and turn into a nightmare eventually? Or would if he didn't wake himself up?"

"Not necessarily. He could be dodging because it's an unpleasant truth, not a terrible one. But definitely, he needs to talk to Michael about it."

Cuddy sighed again. "Okay. I'll keep trying to work on him. Maybe I'll try to get his curiosity up; if I point out that it's missing, he might start analyzing that fact himself."

"Or let him know you're concerned. That's a very strong card as long as you don't overuse it."

"I just wanted to make sure first that I wasn't reacting to nothing here. He's probably going to tell me I am."

"You're not. This means something. What does he think about when he wakes up and gets up for a while?"

"Not that he tells me everything, but I believe it's always been about Thornton. I'm not sure if that's tied to the dream, though. Thornton is on his mind especially this last week anyway, almost like default subject he goes back to when he has a minute. It's been an interesting week there; haven't got time right now, but I'll tell you more Friday. But last night, he was definitely using ice cream to distract himself when I first saw him. He hadn't just been thinking about not reaching the dream cake, and he did bring up Thornton a little later after we finished the ice cream. Or maybe Thornton _is_ tied to the dream. You think he's putting himself in the family he never had? Maybe he can't see them because he doesn't want to admit to himself yet that he wants Thornton, even though he does."

Patterson sounded thoughtful. "I don't know. It's an odd dream, could go a few different directions. But I think it's the ending - which he's trying to stop the movie before he gets to - that will reveal it. Of course, it goes without saying that you won't try to pull my analysis on him. This was just between us. Don't play psychiatrist; just be his wife and let Michael do the analyzing with him. You can talk him into this - and you need to. My first appointment just got here, so I need to go now."

"Okay. Thanks for talking to me."

"Thank you for letting yourself call instead of just privately chewing at it. Have a good day, Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy hung up and sat at her desk, looking at the family picture on the wall. It was good to have the psychiatrist's confirmation, but part of her also wished that Patterson had agreed with House that the pursuit of elusive dream cake had no significance at all beyond the fact that he liked chocolate.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Short one, but you'll understand soon why I broke it here. The next chapter is my favorite in the whole story. It's mostly written already - I wrote that main scene down out of order weeks ago as I loved it so much. Give me some reviews, and it won't be as long on the update this time.

(H/C)

"Initial labs from early this morning," Taub said. "Kidney functions are getting worse."

House studied the printouts, then stood to go to the whiteboard, twirling the marker between his fingers in thought. "When was the last time prior to developing symptoms that he had any sort of physical?" Silence met his question, and he turned around to glare at them. "Nobody has asked him that?"

"Not specifically," Foreman finally admitted. "We were focused on history since symptoms began."

House rolled his eyes. "Okay, _children,_ here's the kindergarten explanation. No clot. No infection. He doesn't have diabetes. No cysts. No conveniently visible masses. He's just got the renal failure without any of the obvious causes, so it would help to establish a timeline if we can. If he was creeping toward kidney failure even _before_ his father died, we're looking at a much longer-term process, even a genetic one, that's quite possibly just been kicked into overdrive from the stress lately. If it's entirely since the funeral and company promotion, nothing at all off earlier, there could be some much more acute contributing cause like environmental toxicity. We need to check out his office, presumably formerly his father's. Sounds like he's almost been living there the last three months."

Taub nodded after a moment. "Could be a toxin. Maybe even contributed to the death of his father, even with different symptoms."

House doubted that, but worth a shot. "You're doing family this morning; we already tried Kutner on history yesterday. Maybe they'll tell you different answers. Ask if there was an autopsy on the father; if so, ask for release of a copy. Also, the most thorough family history you can get, going back as far as they remember, both sides. Could well be that Castleton Enterprises isn't the only thing Bucks Jr. inherited from his father - or his mother."

"Should we postpone the cardiac testing?" Foreman asked. "He's not likely to take treadmill exercise any better today with the labs worse, and kidneys don't need persantine added into the picture."

"Yes, at least for now," House agreed. "Kutner, go search the office. If you can't manage breaking in during business hours, try simply asking his assistant. Foreman, talk to the patient himself again. Ask him about his history _before_ the last three months, and track down all former labs you can for comparison over time. Go. Do."

The team stood up and headed out. "Did you notice something odd about House?" Kutner asked as they waited at the elevator.

Foreman considered. "He gave us his thoughts up front instead of just letting us discuss it. You're right; that's a little strange."

"Almost like he had something else to do," Kutner pondered. House was definitely into this case. He had been focused, interested, differentializing - but still, pushing the team out the door faster than usual.

"Worry about easier things than explaining House, such as how to break into a multimillion dollar corporation at 9:00 a.m.," Taub advised him. Kutner grinned as the elevator door opened.

Back in the diagnostics suite, House studied the whiteboard for another two minutes just to tell himself he wasn't rushing to the office. Finally, he walked - well, _limped_ - at an even slower than usual pace to his desk, logged into the laptop, and nonchalantly checked email as if it were any old day.

The message from Thornton was not there.

House stared accusingly at the list, then checked his watch, then looked at the list again. It still wasn't there. He walked back to the conference room and studied the whiteboard for another half hour. This was genetic, he would bet on it, even though it was only right to cover all bases and check on a toxin. He trotted out possible candidates, adding together congenital kidney issues with delayed presentation into young adulthood as well as congenital jerkness with acute exacerbation as other symptoms accumulate in young adulthood. Trouble with genetic testing, of course, was that it took longer than standard tests. If genetic, they would have to diagnose based on symptoms and history and start treatment with confirmation afterwards. That was assuming there even was treatment. Many genetic conditions don't have cures, only management, and some lack even that. He had already started Bucks Jr. on ACE inhibitors for kidney protection, a step that those idiot doctors should have taken at least a few months ago when admitted symptoms began and obviously weren't due to simple and clearing UTI.

Coming to himself out of the diagnostic haze, he checked his watch, then walked casually back into his office. No email. He deleted all the other new messages unread, then picked up his ball. A light tap at the door interrupted him, and he looked up to see Wilson. "Got a few minutes?"

"You're going to take them anyway, so why bother asking?" House wasn't serious there; he was glad to have a chance for further probing into the Wilson mystery. Wilson read the implied-but-definitely-not-stated welcome and entered.

"Look, about yesterday, I'm sorry if that was abrupt. We just haven't talked much lately about what's going on with each other. We need to catch up. I know we've both got the kids now and are busy, but we can still talk to each other when something's on our mind."

"Exactly," House replied. "This is a good chance, actually, while the Scooby Gang is out chasing genetic or environmental ghosts." He waved a hand at the chairs in front of the desk, and Wilson sat down in relief.

"So, House. . ." The oncologist broke off as House's laptop ding-donged. House was immediately riveted, looking away at the screen. He scowled and hit delete. Wilson frowned in thought. "Expecting a message?" Surely House wasn't emailing with his prostitute from the weekend. Was he?

"No," House stated.

"You seemed awfully on top of that email," Wilson challenged.

House flipped to the trash folder. "You that curious what it was? Okay, here goes. 'You can add 4 inches overnight.' Obviously, they don't know who they're talking to. There's such as thing as having _too_ much."

Wilson stood and walked around the desk to read over House's shoulder. "Wow. You weren't lying."

"No, I wasn't lying." Another email arrived just then, the 1 appearing up in the inbox as the chime sounded. House didn't switch folders, acting now as if he couldn't care less what message might want his attention.

"Not going to check that one?" Wilson asked.

House turned away from the screen. "I'm having a conversation with you right now. Don't want to seem rude."

"It's a few years too late for that." Wilson obligingly walked back around to the visitor's chair, giving House a chance while surreptitiously watching his posture out of the corner of his eye as he moved. The quick check, the slight deflating of the shoulders, the angry deletion. Wilson dropped into his chair. "Anyway, House, if anything is ever bothering you, you can talk to me."

"Great," House replied. "Since you offered, I'll do just that. Speaking of having too much, have you woken up in any more strange beds lately?"

Wilson straightened up indignantly. "You mean did I cheat again? I've got a _family_, House. I've got responsibilities." He realized that House was just working around to the subject of his own indiscretion, but starting out with a reminder of Wilson's fault nearly a _year_ ago was a very low blow. "You shouldn't just forget commitments while you're out having a good time. Random parties aren't any kind of excuse for . . ." His pager went off. He snapped it out of his pocket in annoyance, read the message, then swore. "Damn it. Patient's crashing." He stood up. "This conversation isn't over." He stalked out the door, annoyed and showing it in his stride.

House sat in his desk chair for a good five minutes doing a differential on that kettle of fish, but as many ways as he looked at it, he still couldn't find anywhere that Wilson had directly denied the accusation. He had only listed reasons it would be a mistake, and if anything, he had been, as Shakespeare noted, protesting too much. House sighed deeply. The laptop chimed again, and he looked over quickly. It was a professional association email. He deleted it viciously and checked his watch again. It was now 9:45.

Hauling himself to his feet, he limped toward the conference room to study the patient's symptoms further. The fact that he was worried about Wilson and about - no, he _wasn't_ worried about Thornton, damn it. The fact that he was worried about Wilson didn't mean he needed to get distracted on the case.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Enjoy! In my own totally biased opinion, I adore this scene and have since my muse first presented it.

(H/C)

Once he surfaced from another private differential on the patient, House limped back into the office to check email again. Nothing. By this point, he was getting annoyed at Thornton for finally leaving him alone, and he was getting even more annoyed at himself for letting it matter. He picked up his thinking ball and bounced it with extra vigor off the ceiling. 10:20, well over an hour late, and while Thornton lacked John House's time precision obsession to the literal minute, it had never varied more than 10 minutes. House suddenly remembered Cuddy's - or rather, Patterson's - point that Thornton was in his 70s. He looked perfectly healthy, though, obviously still quite fit for his age and still looked like he even ran some. House slammed the ball against the wall. If Thornton died without giving him the details on the music, he _would_ have perfectly justifiable grounds to be furious at him.

The office door opened tentatively, and a worker from the mail room entered, keeping a wary eye on the bouncing ball. "Here's your mail for today, Dr. House," she said, holding out a stack.

House grunted and pointedly kept both hands occupied with the ball. "I'm _busy_." This one was new; most of them knew to just leave it on the desk, where he would eventually find his way to it later in the day. He missed Cameron at times with her automatic self-assignment of that duty, but actually, House did make more effort on mail and paperwork now than he had before his marriage. Keeping Cuddy happy paid some neat dividends these days.

The worker looked at the ball dubiously, then quickly extended her hand between bounces to place the stack of envelopes on the corner of his desk. She exited the office at twice the speed she had entered. House kept his eyes on the ball, barely glancing at the mail. Consult requests, no doubt, or offers to speak at conferences. He had little hope of any of the consult requests being more interesting than the current patient. He would have welcomed a magazine to scan for interesting articles waiting to be either absorbed or mocked while he awaited more info from the team, but while he subscribed to several journals at work, they weren't in today's pile. A magazine would have stood out. No, just standard business envelopes and the one slightly larger brown one on the base of the pile but still not a magazine.

Plain brown envelope. House abruptly came to attention, caught the ball on the next bounce, and stilled it. He didn't receive many plain brown envelopes. Most people mailing him at work went to great lengths to attract his attention even in packaging, using the most accredited and impressive preprinted return addresses they had available on official business envelopes. He fished the small brown mailer out of the pile. It was a little larger than 5 x 7, lightly padded, addressed to him by full title, and the return address in small letters was T. Thornton in Missouri.

House held it for a minute, turning it in his hands, studying it like a potential letter bomb. Thornton had never physically mailed him anything. Their entire communication since his father had left Princeton had been by email. Thornton didn't even _have_ his home address, but he knew where he worked, of course. The envelope was addressed neatly, very legibly, but there was nothing really outstanding about it. The postmark was Saturday morning, several hours after House's last email, making a Tuesday delivery very likely on first-class mail time, and it also had a tracking number for delivery confirmation. The envelope was stiff, resisting bending. House debated for another few minutes, half tempted to throw it away unopened, but his curiosity wouldn't let him. Finally, slowly, as if it might burn his fingers, he opened the flap, then tilted the envelope, not yet reaching in but allowing whatever chose to fall out.

The first thing that emerged was a CD, the type of generic blank you can buy in bulk in stores, although this one had been granted a plastic protective case and not just a white paper sleeve. It had been labeled across the surface with black marker, again in Thornton's neat printing. _Timothy Thornton in concert._ House stared. He had been trying for two months to find anything by his grandfather, had even hired a musical search service, but their report just last week had given the verdict. There were no known recordings that had been made. Ironically, the concert to which his grandfather had been going when he and his wife were killed _would_ have been recorded, the biggest performance to date. Instead, the world was left with nothing available.

Nothing available _commercially_, at least. Somehow, House hadn't even thought of simply asking his father if any private recordings existed that hadn't been commercially distributed. He hadn't mentioned his grandfather at all, even though Thornton presumably knew he knew about him, as Jensen had told him in their brief, accidental meeting that he would pass information acquired on to House. While House had been communicating - well, sort of - with Thornton at the same time he had been searching the musical world for anything left behind, those two processes had been rigidly separated. House hadn't even noticed the high wall between them until now. Instead, he had hired strangers and turned the internet upside down himself rather than simply asking Thornton about his grandfather.

Suddenly moving much more quickly, he opened the clear plastic case, extracted the homemade CD, and popped it in, grabbing the headphones. This was _private_, not to be shared with the team or Wilson or random passing hospital employees in the hall. He wanted to hear it alone first. Thornton had not provided any table of contents, leaving the discovery to him. The music started, the first track launching Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor. House closed his eyes and listened, absorbing the music. The quality of the recording was not quite up to modern standards. This had to predate 1947, even though transferred to disk later, and probably wasn't done on the best equipment available even for that day, not being commercially produced. But the technology was only noticeable on the edge of awareness; the touch on the keys still came through loud and clear. His grandfather, playing the piano.

Technically, he was superb, definitely professional quality, but it was the personality on top of the technique that sparkled. He had a flair, almost creeping toward flamboyance at times without ever quite crossing that line, but it was mixed with startling sensitivity and the ability to change gears and dynamics abruptly, and the wide expressive range of the concerto showcased those qualities perfectly. He drew out every nuance, but he never overinterpreted the music, and the softer moments were caressed in their turn with equally as much feeling as the more dramatic highlights, only differently expressed. All three movements of the concerto were on the CD, followed by a whirlwind rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee. That was too short to be a concert feature, probably an encore piece, and appropriately, he was staging a bit more there, the piece managing to sound playful and not simply fast and difficult. House had to give him credit for inserting some interpretation into _that_ where most pianists have their tongues hanging out simply dealing with the tempo. There was a quick eruption of applause at the end before the track shut off. That was followed by Rachmaninoff's famous Prelude in C-Sharp Minor with all its splendid Russian moodiness. That was it. Three works, and the CD returned to the beginning, starting Grieg again. That had to be all that existed; the CD could have held more if more had been available.

House opened his eyes, letting out a deep breath. His grandfather. His _grandfather_. It had not fully hit him until now, not the personality bubbling behind the keys, still vibrant decades later. Everything previous had just been preliminary research, sterile facts on a computer screen or a PI's report. Until now, for him, his grandfather hadn't _lived_.

Still listening to the CD, round two, he started to put the envelope aside, then stopped, feeling it. There was something else in here, something thin but slightly stiff. He shook the envelope, and a picture fell out into his hand. It was a 5 by 7, and it, like the recordings, dated itself somewhat once he started analyzing it. It was in color. House knew that even though color photography hadn't been widely popular until the 1960s, it had been in occasional use by some professionals decades earlier, and this was obviously a professional shot, probably taken for publicity.

It was startling. His grandfather, obviously in the middle of a concert, on a stage somewhere, was playing the piano, leaning forward toward the keyboard as if toward a lover. His powerful but sensitive hands claimed the instrument, and the expression on his face was pure focus but also a softness to the eyes that gave away how intensely he felt the music. The photographer was either immediately in front of the stage or using an excellent lens, as this was very much of a closeup, just the man and the keyboard filling the shot, barely any of the platform visible behind him. Even so, the pianist was completely unaware of the nearby camera.

House studied the face. It could easily have been a picture of himself, years ago. Almost. Even before his leg, House's face had been guarded, shielding remembered pain. His grandfather's was simply focused. But with that slight difference aside, the expression of concentration was _so _close, and the physical resemblance was truly remarkable. Even given the limitations of color photography back then, he could tell the eyes were precisely the same startling blue as his own.

House studied the picture throughout the first movement of the Grieg again, slowly going over each line of the face, each angle of the posture. He tried to shake out of the spell of it and look at it step by step as a differential, trying to figure out what was hidden, how the image presented was deceptive. He couldn't do it. Of course, he hadn't known the man, which limited his perception of the picture's truth, but he did have the CD to compare with, and unlike many pictures, music didn't lie. Looking at him, he abruptly wished that he had known him. Which was illogical and defied all possibility, besides being irrelevant to the differential. Even if he'd been raised in his "other" family, he wouldn't have known him, because this man had died over a decade before he himself was born.

He finally turned the picture over after the movement ended to see if there was any additional information on the back. A year, 1946, in Thornton's handwriting. One year before his death. He would have been 34. House reluctantly put the picture down in his lap, still where he could see it, and explored the envelope again, finally reaching in to feel every corner. There was nothing else. No note, no message from Thornton. Rather, the other two items _were_ the message.

House dropped the envelope in the trash, then picked up the picture again, watching the hands as the music played on. The shot was remarkably dynamic. Easy to imagine that he saw the fingers moving even now.

His grandfather.

"House?" House jumped sharply, not having heard Foreman's approach through the headphones. He dropped the picture, and Foreman bent to pick it up and gave it a cursory glance as he handed it back to him. "Nice picture," Foreman said, obviously taking it at first for one of House himself. In the next instant, his attention sharpened, trying to pursue that thought a little further and define what was slightly wrong with it.

House opened his top right desk drawer and shoved the picture in, safe from differentializing eyes, then pulled off the headphones and stilled the CD. "_What_?" he demanded. "And this had better be damn good."

"I've got labs from a year and a half ago and more history. Routine physical; he gave me the doc's name and authorized release, and I had them faxed. Kidney function _is_ pushing the upper limits of normal, even back then."

House looked at the wall, wheels visibly spinning. "Go find Taub and see if he's done charming the mother and the girlfriend. Then both of you come back here." Foreman nodded, gave one glance toward the drawer, then left without comment. He knew a no-trespassing sign when he saw one and also knew better than to waste his time trying to bypass one after House had posted it.

House turned back to his desk, still feeling caught in the spell of the past even as the present demanded his attention. He would file this for further analysis later. First, he ejected the CD, returned it to its case, then fished the envelope out of the trash and returned both the picture and the CD to it for safekeeping. He placed them in the locking drawer of his desk, started to get up, then paused.

Quickly, he called up his email program and brought up a blank new email form. He would give Thornton credit for contact, even if differently, which made it his turn, and he was sure suddenly that the other man would be waiting and watching the computer himself. Besides, he still didn't have logistical details on the music, although he oddly felt much less impatient on that, finding plenty to digest at the moment just from this package. He stared at the blank window for a few minutes, the cursor blinking patiently at him, but for some reason, he couldn't make himself dissect out as usual all the various angles of how he might reply to emphasize the distance. He heard Taub and Foreman entering the conference room behind him; he had to get going. He finally just typed a short sentence. _I got the CD and picture this morning._ He hit send. He didn't say thanks, but in two months, that was the first email from him that carried no challenge, no searing skepticism, simply information.

Signing out of the computer, House stiffly stood up and headed into the conference room to the whiteboard.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton checked email again, as he had done at least every five minutes this morning. This time, the message was there, and he clicked on it eagerly, then let out a soft sigh of relief. Incredibly hard just to sit here and wait, but he had wanted to know if Greg would acknowledge the package, would step out a little himself. Thomas wouldn't have let the silence go on past tonight, but in the meantime, he had wanted to give his son a chance.

Still, he'd nearly driven himself nuts this morning waiting, unable to shut off his analysis long-distance of Greg's probable day. Assuming that Greg wasn't snowed under and preoccupied with a case that prevented prompt checking of the mail, which, of course, Thomas had no way of knowing, assuming that US mail was delivered early to the hospital to get that large daily bulk disposed of in one drop-off, and assuming that US mail got priority sorting by the mail room and delivery was made at least to the doctors and major hospital staff fairly promptly, logical although again he didn't know for sure, his son hopefully should have had the package in his office by mid morning.

With that guess forming a very shaky foundation, he could then try to work out how quickly Greg, again assuming he was sitting in his office, might have opened it. Thomas couldn't imagine Greg being the type to jump promptly onto mail every day as soon as it arrived, but on the other hand, the envelope had been planned to catch his attention by its very anonymity and lack of professional medical appearance. If he had glanced at the day's mail stack at all, he should have noticed that. Then he probably would have held it for a while debating whether to open it; Thomas had been honest with the return address. The lack of a timely email this morning would have been an additional boost to open it for the physically delivered message that obviously substituted for the missing electronic one. Thomas thought his son _would_ open it but also thought he would hang fire for a few minutes.

Once he opened it, then he would listen to the CD first, again assuming that he even had opportunity to at the moment around his work. Given a chance, he might listen to it more than once. Then he would finally consider responding, and considering responding still didn't mean that he would. Earliest realistic response time couldn't be much before 11:00, Jersey time, but Thornton had been checking since well before that - and after. It was now creeping toward lunch time with nothing but silence and a few annoying spam.

Thus had whirled the carousel of Thomas' thoughts all morning, interspersed with possible variations on his construction such as Greg throwing the package away unopened or the delivery being delayed. The Post Office had assured him that it should be there today, but delivery confirmation usually took several hours to be updated on the USPS website and would only count for the package entering the hospital in the hands of the US mail, anyway, not for the hospital mail room sorting or their delivery. The email was blessed relief, halting the ride in its tracks.

Furthermore, Greg obviously had read between the lines. The silent message from Thornton had been received, not only the claim that he _did_ realize what music was and wouldn't lie about it, but also the photograph and recording gently but inescapably emphasizing to his son that they _were_ connected. That was fact, no matter how things stood between them, and it would never change. Thomas hoped it wasn't too early to make that unspoken point, but he had thought all along that the music might prove a good tool for him to use. Not immediately after the trial or in isolation, as _he_ was the main issue Greg had to come to terms with, not his father. But after two months, it was time to move forward even if just a few steps, and he knew that picture was unable to be ignored, as was the CD. He certainly needed all the help he could get, and his father wouldn't have minded giving him a hand, after all.

A pang of regret stabbed through him again that his parents hadn't known either of his sons, their grandchildren. He only hoped that he would have an opportunity someday to know his own, but he wasn't about to go there yet. He had to build a bridge to his son first, but a bridge required footings established on both sides for support in order to be sturdy enough to last. He reread Greg's email. The reply was short, but Thomas knew that this one actually said more than all previous had, and most of all, it had been sent. They _were_ making progress, slowly but surely. Now, he would back up the package with a little more specific information.

Opening up a reply form, Thomas started typing by far the longest of his own emails to date.


	12. Chapter 12

Foreman tossed the old labs onto the table, and House picked them up for a quick scan. Taub had already looked them over in the elevator. "No followup at all?" House asked.

"According to Castleton, the doc said that he was probably just a little dehydrated, since lots of people when they're preparing for fasting labs don't keep drinking water. He said they'd check it again at the next full physical. That hasn't occurred yet, by the way. Castleton was on vacation a year later, then his father died three months ago, and everything since has been frantically busy."

House shook his head, looking at the values. BUN and creatinine technically normal but _right_ on the edge. Adding in the age and no diabetes, this definitely counted as an abnormal profile, at least in Housian terms. For a then 22-year-old with these values, he would have immediately retested a nonfasting study, which would eliminate the dehydration theory. He definitely would have followed it up with serial labs every six months at a minimum, even if the retest had been normal, and he would have also gone on to ultrasound and further kidney studies then.

"Idiot," House snarled. "Don't doctors _think_ anymore? He calls it normal because the lab defines that as top value and doesn't look further. There is no reason for a healthy 22-year-old to have these numbers except dehydration, and one simple repeat BMP nonfasting would have ruled that out back then." He shook his head. "And _then_ the moron just diagnoses grief and gives him an antidepressant when he returns after the funeral feeling off instead of completing full repeat lab work."

"And the second doctor he saw only got a UA, which was when they discovered the microscopic hematuria." Foreman finished the chronicle of medical incompetence. "Although Castleton probably was a contributing factor there. Quicker to give a urine sample than to wait for a blood draw at the lab, and UTI is the easiest thing of all to test for, so logical first step for undefined feeling offness. He no doubt was itching to get back to work and counted every minute in the office a waste of time."

"The idiot doctor _still_ should have done a culture and some followup instead of just throwing an antibiotic at him and closing the chart." House sighed. "Okay, Little Bucks has obviously been heading for renal insufficiency for quite a while. What does that tell us?"

"Genetic," Taub said. "Possibly kicked into full speed by the grief and stress the last three months, though."

"What about the family history?" House demanded.

"I went clear back to the grandparents," Taub replied. "They didn't remember any further, and even that was a bit shaky. People never actually write all this stuff down, and they only remember the highlights. But the mother has never had kidney problems, perfectly healthy. Her parents, one had Alzheimer's, one diabetes. That one _did_ have kidney problems, along with retinopathy, neuropathy, and the whole rest of the diabetic cocktail. Father had a heart attack three months ago and died. He had hypertension before that but not renal problems. His parents both had CAD. Castleton has one sibling, a brother two years younger. He was there today, by the way, and the jerk factor is definitely somewhat congenital in that family. But the brother is healthy."

"Define healthy," House stated pointedly. "Healthy because he looks young and fit so nobody has really ever worked him up? Or healthy because he actually has had full physicals regularly by a competent doctor, which excludes the one who did Bucks, Jr.'s last physical a year and a half ago?"

"Good point," Taub conceded. "I took their word for it."

House made a buzzer sound. "How long have you worked for me? Okay, we need lab tests on the whole family to check kidney function and for anything else that jumps out. I take it nobody has ever actually had genetic testing of any kind?"

"No. House, we can't test the father. He's dead," Foreman reminded him.

"Ever hear of shovels?" House asked. "We've been down this road before."

Foreman flinched. "We can't get a BMP on him even digging. He wouldn't have blood now, just embalming fluid."

"Maybe the mother has some keepsake hair or something," Taub suggested. "We could at least get DNA from that and check for major abnormalities in the structure. I didn't ask her if she had hair, but I will."

House snorted. "Why do people have to inconveniently be dead when I needed to test them?" Foreman and Taub exchanged a look. "Anything else you found out this morning that was new?"

"He's annoyed at being here and thinks he's wasting his time, but we already knew that. I think you're right, though," Foreman said.

"Of course I am. How specifically?"

"He's scared. For all the protests, he isn't demanding to leave AMA. He really does think there's something wrong. He's trying to work here even while being a patient, though. He's worried about some big contract bid that's due next week. Always has his nose in that laptop, and I have trouble occasionally getting his attention away from it."

House turned to Taub. "Did you apply all your talents and sweet talk his girlfriend out of any more info?"

Taub didn't respond to the side jab. "I talked to her separate from the family. She's trying, but there's nothing specific. He's been more snappish lately, and he hasn't been listening to her input on things as much, which she put down to stress." Taub stopped. Something had caught House's attention there. It wasn't the epiphany look, the "I have it." More the look of the hunting hound who, questing in circles, crosses the scent and pauses for a few confirmatory sniffs to make sure before taking off baying. "What?"

"He hasn't been listening to her input as much," House repeated. He turned and eyed the white board, then slowly underlined both congenital and acute next to jerk. "That could tell us something."

"What?" Foreman repeated impatiently.

House capped the marker and returned it to the tray. "I think it's time I met Bucks, Jr., myself."

(H/C)

Cuddy exited the elevator on four and headed for Diagnostics. She could see him through the glass walls, apparently just finishing a differential with Foreman and Taub, and as always, she felt herself smiling - then controlled it, staying professional - just at the sight of him. The anxiety was improving, and she no longer had to check on him every hour to keep from panic, but she still stopped by a few times a day for reassurance, and she would never get tired of seeing him. She was careful these days not to phrase it as making sure he was working, and House himself realized her motives now and didn't mind her visits. But it was always comforting somehow to find him here, in his domain, doing what he did best. It was especially comforting today with the Castleton fortune involved in the outcome.

She entered the conference room just as House stepped away from the whiteboard. "Got a minute, or is the patient urgent?"

"Not urgent, just interesting. He probably won't die in the next half hour." House looked at the wrapped sub she was carrying. "Odd, I don't remember ordering delivery. Must admit, they're improving in their selection of delivery minions, though."

Cuddy smiled. "I have a lunch meeting in 10 minutes, and we ordered sandwiches. I threw in your favorite while I was ordering." She looked at Foreman and Taub. "It is lunch time."

House eyed his watch, surprised. "So it is. Okay, ducklings, take a lunch break. Then I'll meet Bucks, Jr., after." Foreman and Taub discretely vanished, and Cuddy followed House into his office.

"You're going to meet him personally?"

"I've got an idea. Not sure if it's the right one yet, but it could use a field test." He sat down, and Cuddy put the sandwich in front of him. "Not staying yourself?"

"Don't tempt me, Greg. I'd much rather stay than go to this meeting." She studied him. She had also wanted a private reading on him. She had no idea what sort of schedule, if any, he and Thornton were on, but he had said last night that he expected a reply soon. He definitely looked more - sort of surprised and settled at the same time. There was a difference, anyway, from breakfast this morning, and it was a positive one. He was no longer as edgy. "Any interesting emails this morning?" she probed tentatively.

"Nope," House answered, perfectly honestly. He saw her expression and relented. "He didn't email me, but he did mail me a package."

This was new. "What was in it?" she asked. If he had wanted to keep it totally private, he wouldn't have volunteered the information.

He unlocked his desk drawer. "Meet my grandfather," he announced, offering the CD and the picture.

It was the picture that grasped her nonmusician mind stronger. She appreciated what the CD would mean to him, but the picture spoke straight to her. "Wow." She looked at it, her smile widening. "That's amazing. You have got to see the picture Jensen took Friday, Greg. I'll forward it to you once I'm back at my computer. Really, it's almost like Jensen and Mark."

House rolled his eyes. "I don't look _that_ much like him."

Cuddy's pager went off. She checked it and sighed. "Damn meeting."

"Sure you don't want to play hookey?" His eyes were sparkling, inviting her. So tempting, but she had a job after all.

"I'd love to, but I really can't." She handed the picture back to him. "Enjoy lunch with your grandfather. I really have to go. See you later." She kissed him, then left the office. She was still smiling as she entered the elevator.

(H/C)

Back at his desk, House looked at the picture. It still didn't quite look like him to his eyes. Close, yes, very close, but not quite. He put the picture and CD down on the desk and signed into his laptop to check email. There was one from Thornton now, and he clicked on it. The message started without salutation, as usual. Ever since House had objected to Thornton addressing him as Greg, the other man called him nothing at all, refusing to go to the more formal Dr. House, simply leaving the vacancy there.

_I'm glad the package was on time. The Post Office promised that it would be there today, but you know what their promises are worth occasionally. I apologize for not emailing this morning earlier; I thought it might help you open it._

_It was Tim, my older brother, who saved the recordings. There are only those three pieces ever recorded, unfortunately, and lucky to have those. He was so young; we never expected anything like that to happen. They were just starting to consider recording and marketing his records commercially, and the next concert was going to be recorded professionally, but he died in an accident on the way there. I'll assume that you know at least as much as is public information on the internet about his death. I was 11. I was half stunned and half mad at the time, and I didn't even think of the recordings, but Tim did. _

_Dad's brother had always considered music irresponsible, extremely critical of anything to do with it. I've wondered if he was jealous of Dad's gift on some level. When Dad died, he stepped in with a vengeance. My grandparents were already dead, so he was the leading candidate to inherit us as far as the authorities were concerned. He was a real asshole. He sold _everything_, said that it would add to the life insurance that he thought Dad hadn't had enough of, and he was always talking about how we should be grateful he had 'invested' it in worthwhile things for us instead so we'd have a nice checking account once we each turned 21. I had been given a horse for my 10th birthday, and the horse was definitely on the auction block. Dad's grand piano. Tim wanted that. He was the only one of us who could play at all, but my uncle insisted it was too impractical, too much hassle to move, would take up too much room in his house, and was, of course, worth actual money, one of the most valuable things there. So it was sold, too. Other than just a few things allowed for each of us, 'practical' and approved by our uncle, the whole rest of the house and everything in it was sold, even little stuff. But while I was just being mad, Tim thought of specifically looking for the recordings and sneaking them along. Ellie, my sister, took the pictures; my uncle understood her wanting those because she was a girl, and that was a 'girl' thing. _

_I wish you could have known Dad. He was _fun_. Mom called him her fourth kid, but in a fond way. He would do things with us, from roughhousing to just talking to jokes. He was a great one for jokes, but they were always the kind you laughed at, too. The only time we knew not to bother him was when he was playing the piano, when he got that focused look. He was in a different zone then, wouldn't even hear you call his name half the time, but even then, after he'd practiced for a while, he'd play our favorites just to apologize in a way for getting lost in his own world briefly. That Flight of the Bumblebee was my favorite. I remember standing beside him and watching his fingers, and they would just blur. It didn't seem humanly possible. _

_He wrote us birthday songs, too. I wish I had the music of those, but I don't think he ever wrote them down, and I know they weren't recorded. I remember some of them, though, at least roughly. Not like you would, I'm sure, not an actual mental recording. The one for my 10th birthday - that was the one with the horse - ended with 'look in the garage' as the final lyric. Sure enough, Dad had the horse _in_ the garage, smack in the middle of town. Not that he wound up living there, of course; we boarded him at a stable nearby. But for my birthday party, the horse was at the house. He even was led into the kitchen after I followed the song directions and found him. He came to the table to join the rest of the presents. Dad made some crack about hoping he was housebroken, and Mom just laughed and said, "Floors will wash if we need to. Happy birthday." She backed him up, but it was Dad's idea to bring the horse in. Whenever he wasn't practicing, Dad was always doing something like taking a horse into the kitchen or building a snow fort with us. That's how I remember him, other than at the piano. Outside building a snow fort, getting into a snowball fight with the kids, and he wouldn't pull his punches, either. When the neighborhood kids picked sides for a war, they all wanted him. He played as hard as any of us. _

_I wouldn't lie to you about the music. I never could do much myself, but I do realize how serious that is. It was Dad's passion, and I saw that. Still, you don't have to take my word for what I did. I have independent, unquestionable proof, and I'll send it to you. Watch the mail. Another package is starting off today. _

_The piano first came up on your mother's birthday. You were 8, not quite 9. I had come through for a quick visit, and John and Blythe and I went out to dinner, although John refused to let you come because you were grounded. I'm sure I didn't know the real story on that. I had been looking for an opportunity to talk to Blythe about music. Tim, my other son Tim, I mean, had just started piano lessons. He ultimately turned out not to be that interested, which was fine. I never forced him, just wanted him to have the opportunity, but I wanted the same for you. I knew the genes were there, and you looked so much like Dad. Not just the eyes but the whole face and the way you moved. Tim did, too, actually. The reason you never met him is that I made a point of never bringing him with me to John's on a visit. The two of you side by side would have been like a message on a billboard on the highway. I thought John didn't know, but he sure would have if he'd seen you together. Nobody could have missed it. _

_Anyway, I'd been wondering how I could give you a chance on the music, too. At one point, John got up to go call and check on you. I'm sure I don't have all of that, either. I wish I'd known that evening what was really going on or that I'd understood you earlier when you asked for help a few years before. I would have killed the bastard. But his leaving the table gave me a few minutes alone with Blythe, which was rare. We were careful to never be together alone, since we didn't want John to get suspicious. For the same reason, I never wrote to her, although she wrote me regularly and gave me updates on you. But she said John always checked the mail. _

_So that night, I asked Blythe if you had any musical talent, and she didn't know, said you'd never even been near a piano. But she mentioned her friend who gave lessons, and I saw a chance there. After a few questions if the friend was trustworthy and could keep a secret, I said that if she'd mail me the address, this friend would get an anonymous donation, enough for a piano and lessons for a while. I even suggested possible cover stories to slip the piano past John; he knew Blythe wanted one. I knew the way to put that over on him would be through his ego, stroke that a little, and he wouldn't question anything that made him look like a winner over somebody else. Honestly, in retrospect, I don't know how I missed seeing what a thorough bastard he was. I have no excuse for that. There were little signs, even if I never saw him without the mask like you did. _

_I sent money for a piano and for lessons, enough lessons to give you a chance and see if it struck a chord with you. I did specify that if you wanted to quit, that was fine, and she shouldn't put any pressure on you. Her friend delayed starting your lessons a month or two to distance it from the piano, so John wouldn't be suspicious, but I still have the letter Blythe sent shortly after you had started. Still have all of her letters, actually. They were the only window I had on you, even if an obviously limited and naive one. She was so thrilled in that letter talking about how it just seemed inate with you, just like something you already knew and only needed to be reminded of. I reread that letter over and over that night, and I listened to Flight of the Bumblebee. I was glad I finally had been able to do something for you; I always wanted to, but I didn't want to make John starting wondering about me. _

_As for the music continuing, once the money I'd sent ran out, John was getting transferred again anyway. So then we . . . _

_But I've taken up enough of your day at work. I'll tell you how we arranged the rest of the music lessons on Friday. _

_Thomas _

House hit the end of the email like a road unexpectedly ending right in front of his car, requiring a screech of brakes to stop. He even tried to scroll down more just in case, but that was it. Friday? Thornton was going to make him wait for the rest of the story clear until _Friday_? He quickly pulled up a reply form, sending again just one sentence. _You son of a bitch._

Annoyed, he closed the laptop and gave the ball a few strong bounces. Finally, he remembered the sandwich. He'd better eat that; the team would be back before long, and Cuddy would ask later. Besides, his leg was hurting. He cued up the CD again and listened to his grandfather while munching his sandwich with a side of pills, and his mind tracked back into the first details of that uncompleted story. Bringing a horse into the kitchen. Snowball wars. Making jokes that weren't meant solely to put somebody else down. That whole concept of a father was alien to him. He had to admit, though, the man did sound fun. Unexpected sympathy crept in at the thought of Thornton being yanked abruptly from that into the clutches of his rigidly 'practical' uncle at only 11. No wonder he had been mad.

Finishing the sandwich, House listened to Flight of the Bumblebee one more time, then ejected the CD. He really ought to get a recording done of Cuddy's Serenade, just in case. Life, as he knew well, could throw you some vicious surprises. He would hate for her to be left with only the memory of it if anything ever happened.

Tucking the CD back into the desk drawer, he took a minute to look at his grandfather again, studying the eyes, the features. So close to his own, yet with a subtle difference. He checked email again, and there was already a reply from Thornton to his hurled epithet. He clicked on it.

_I've been called worse. Wonder what that would make you._

_Thomas_

For the first split second, the corner of House's mouth started to quirk slightly before the annoyance slammed in and produced a scowl instead. Damn the man. Fine, let him be that way. House ruthlessly signed out without acknowledging the message. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was one reply up on score from today given the twice a week schedule, so he could skip Friday completely himself. He didn't have to talk to his father again until next Tuesday, a whole week away. Relocking the desk drawer, he stood up just as Foreman and Taub re-entered the conference room. Time to go meet Bucks, Jr.

(H/C)

House limped into the room to find Castleton, as advertised, with his nose in the laptop and looking worried and impatient. The mother and girlfriend were hovering attentively on either side, the younger brother at the window looking bored, clearly a duty visit on his part.

"I'm Dr. House," he announced, carefully watching the reactions, step one of his field test. Castleton was the last to look up at him, taking a moment to emerge from the laptop. In the next second, House's attention sharpened, and his mind jumped to a completely different track as he took a few steps forward, ignoring the mother's speech on how honored she was to _finally_ meet him, with the subtle rebuke implied along with the honor. House stopped beside Castleton's bed and looked at his patient carefully, face to face.

Castleton shifted, becoming uneasy under the fixed blue microscope. "What's your problem?"

House stared. The eyes. Straight from thinking about his grandfather's picture, he couldn't miss this point. He looked from Castleton to his mother, then back. "You've all been lying to me," he accused.

Castleton stiffened up as his mother started spouting a high-society offended, "I _beg_ your pardon, but what. . ."

House cut her off ruthlessly, but he was watching her, not Castleton, as he continued. "That whole family history she gave us was a sham. She may be your mother, but Brendon Castleton, Senior, was not your father."


	13. Chapter 13

When Cuddy had told House she'd see him later, _this_ had not quite been what she'd had in mind.

The call from the nursing station came as she left her meeting, interrupting pleasant thoughts of forwarding that piano picture to him once she got back to her office. The nurse had sounded apologetic but urgent. "Dr. Cuddy, the whole Castleton family is having a fit and chewing out Dr. House. It's starting to draw attention. The mother insists they want a different doctor."

Cuddy sighed. "I'll be right there, thank you. Do you have any idea what set them off?"

"Apparently, from what I've overheard, Dr. House accused the mother of cheating and questioned the patient's paternity."

The administrative stride lengthened, heels clicking firmly against the tile. Traffic ahead parted in the force of her approach. "I'm on my way." Cuddy hung up, put her phone away, and sighed again. She could almost see the Castleton wallet retreating before her eyes. This was the 'field test' he had nonchalantly mentioned to her that he intended to conduct after lunch break? The idea he wasn't even sure he was right about? She entered the elevator and pushed the button twice for emphasis. _Damn it, Greg._

(H/C)

The scene up in the patient's room was chaotic.

Mrs. Castleton was the very image of offended status. "How _dare_ you accuse me of cheating on my husband?" she repeated, her reaction not wearing off even though she'd already been through this a few times. She launched into her well-bred tirade again, speech not yelling but clipped, firm, and utterly appalled at the slur on the Castleton name.

Castleton himself was just as offended, though far louder. "My father gave me _everything._ He taught me how to be a success. He trusted me with his life's work, and you think you can just march into this room, question all of that, and call my mother names?"

The younger Castleton brother, on the other hand, was less offended and more curious, though with ulterior motives. He had peeled himself away from the window and was definitely part of the group in the room now, standing right beside his brother's bed as he spoke to him. "Oh, come off it, Brent. You make Dad sound like a saint. I know you were his favorite and the crown prince, but open your eyes. For him, work always came first, and the family only got the leftover time; that was his definition of success. Probably killed him, too. And yes, he did give you everything, but if you really aren't his son, that would change the picture some."

Castleton glared at him. "Shut up, Brad. You got your own trust fund; you're not hurting. But Castleton Enterprises is _mine_."

His brother shrugged. "Legally, yes, and I know that isn't likely to change. But _should_ it have been? That's an interesting question to think about at nights."

"Bradley Davidson Castleton." His mother's voice sliced through the space between the brothers, and Brad and then Brent looked over to her. "These unfounded _rumors_ are not worth getting into a family dispute over, and I will not tolerate slurs upon your father."

"Actually, the main slur here is more upon you," House pointed out, drawing her fire once again, though his eyes were on Castleton.

Foreman had taken Brad's former place against the window, removing himself pointedly from the conflict. He wished he could simply leave the room, but at least this way, he was dissociated a bit in their eyes. This whole thing was just like House. If he'd had doubts of paternity, there were much better ways to bring it up than an open accusation in front of everybody. Foreman had been in therapy for nearly a year now following his assaulting House last fall. One emphasis in his sessions had been on working through his perceptions about his boss and career, being trapped back in this job that he'd once tried to escape and that he resented somewhat even while appreciating it. It was also frustrating that he still _could_ learn from this job, that even with his years here, he knew deep down that he wasn't yet close to the doctor House was. That, as the therapist had told him, could be made into either a resentment or an opportunity, and he did have the power to choose. All of the revelations about House in the last year with the Chandler case had also been a topic, readjusting a little grudgingly some old perceptions in the light of new data. Of course, Remy's death and the fallout from it had taken up plenty of time, too, but Foreman was in general a bit more at peace with himself over House than he once had been. Still, background aside, the man could be a real ass at times. That had not changed and no doubt never would. Foreman sometimes wished that his therapist could see House at moments like this for himself. Maybe then he'd have a little better appreciation of what it was like.

Cuddy entered the room briskly, and Kutner slid in a few steps behind her, just back from a fairly unrewarding trip to Castleton Enterprises to check out the office. The younger doctor moved over to Taub, who was also out of the line of fire against the wall but watching with placid interest rather than Foreman's silent disapproval. "What's the score?" Kutner whispered.

"House thinks Mrs. Castleton cheated on Senior and that Junior isn't his son. Junior Two thinks given that, he should have inherited the company instead," Taub reported softly. "Oh, and the kidney injury has been coming on for at least a year and a half. Probably genetic. It's the genes we're diagnosing now."

"Cool." Kutner settled back to watch with as much interest as he would have given to a top sporting event.

Cuddy had smoothly slipped into administrative mood, trying to soothe the family. "Mr. Castleton, Mrs. Castleton, I'm sorry for this disturbance." She carefully did not look at House, who even in the group wouldn't have been able to resist giving her a private sparkle of his annoyingly beautiful eyes in salute to their personal and reconditioned meaning to that phrase. "What seems to be the problem?"

All three Castletons spoke up at once, then stopped for a visual tussle, and it was the matriarch who continued in sole possession of the field. "Dr. _House_," she spat, making the name sound like an unpleasant disease itself, "accused me of cheating and stated that my husband was not Brent's father. Stated it right in front of the whole family." Her offended dignity was on display in every inch of her body.

Cuddy turned and glared at House. "Dr. House?"

House took a half step forward, entering "explaining to the underlings" mode. "His eyes are blue." Everyone looked at Castleton, confirming this. "His mother's eyes are a very dark brown. According to the color photo online on his obituary, so were Castleton, Senior's." Foreman started to protest, and House nailed him with a look. Technically, it _was_ possible, by various genetic long shots, to have that occur, but it took genetic long shots to do it. The statistical probability in such a case was inaccurate parentage.

"Also," House continued, "_she_ was immediately offended at that suggestion, but she was _not_ surprised. Everyone else was surprised first, then got offended. The possibility wasn't news to her; she just objected to having it brought up in front of this group of people, all of whom, by the way, the patient had given us permission earlier to speak about his health in front of." And _that_ had been the reason he immediately brought up the possibility publicly the second after it struck him, to observe the mother's reaction as opposed to the rest of the family. Foreman looked thoughtful now, analyzing the group reactions in retrospect. Grudgingly, he settled back against the window.

Mrs. Castleton had as many bristles as a porcupine right now. "Permission to speak about his health in front of us all, yes, but that . . . that . . . _baseless_ accusation is _not_ about his health. It's pure gossip."

House shook his head. "Let's get something straight. I couldn't care less whether you slept with the entire Marine Corps. But we are chasing a _disease_ here that most likely is genetic, and _that_ was the reason we asked for family history earlier. Not to write an article on the business and accomplishments or admire the family tree but to obtain _relevant medical information_. I came down here in fact to state that we needed to test the whole family for genetic markers and also basic kidney function. You might have problems you don't realize yourselves. Better to learn that before they become symptomatic; the early you start treating an issue, the better the outcome."

She was still in rigid denial. "You are _not_ going to run DNA tests on us to try to prove that Brent isn't his father's son."

Brad stepped into the fray. "You can test me."

"Bradley," his mother commanded.

He met her look squarely. "I'm of age, so it isn't your decision. I'll give you whatever samples you want, Dr. House, _including_ for paternity checks. Can you tell comparing me to Brent if we're full brothers?"

"Not as conclusively as testing against both parents," House said, "but we can get a high statistical likelihood whether you're full siblings or half. Also, when the question involves two males against their alleged father, we can do a specific DNA test on the Y chromosome. We'd have a very good idea by the end."

"Dr. House, you can't run DNA testing for sibling relationship without permission from _both_ siblings," Cuddy reminded him. "However, Mrs. Castleton, he does have a point if he thinks your son's kidney problems are genetic. That makes it especially essential to get an accurate family history. Even aside from testing for biological relationship, though, there are other tests that ought to be done. Those don't involve challenging your son's paternity. They only involve the health of all of you."

Castleton was having a glaring match with his brother, the dollar signs between them almost visible. "I'll consent to DNA testing against Brad," he insisted. "I have no doubt what it will show, but we're just wasting time on this charade until we get it out of the way." And it would firmly settle once and for all the issue of who was the rightful heir to Castleton Enterprises.

Brad nodded. "You're on, _brother_. He's right, you know. Now that I think about it, Mom _wasn't _surprised like the rest of us. She went straight to mad."

"This is an unnecessary waste of time," Mrs. Castleton protested, "and I assure you, if my son's condition worsens while you are on this wild goose chase, the hospital _will_ be hearing from my lawyers. We also demand a different doctor."

"Odd," House said. "The patient has become plural." He took a few steps toward her and turned his head as he said it, facing her, half turned away from Castleton.

"House!" Cuddy snapped. She faced Castleton. "It's a valid point, though." He hesitated for a moment, thinking. "Mr. Castleton, it would be your decision to change doctors. Do you wish to request a different doctor?"

Castleton looked from her to House to his sputtering mother. "Not right now," he said slowly. "Run your DNA tests on me and Brad, Dr. House. But keep working on finding out what's wrong with me, too." They all saw the hidden fear behind his eyes that time. House was the best, rude though he may be, and Castleton really was concerned about his health.

"Brendon, this is ridiculous," his mother started.

He had already looked toward her, anticipating the objection. "He saved the _President_, Mom. Let him find out he's wrong on this, Dr. Cuddy-House can arrange an apology, and we'll go on to find the real issue."

Brad tilted his head suddenly. "What if _neither _of us is Dad's son? If she cheated once, maybe it happened again, and we really are brothers."

"Bradley," his mother repeated in tones of parental shock.

House shook his head. "_You_ are definitely your father's son. Your alleged father, that is. Like I said, I saw the obituary photo yesterday. You not only have the right eyes; you have his facial structure." Brad and Brent immediately looked at each other, trying to compare and contrast. Kutner and Taub were doing the same from the side of the room, and Kutner nodded slowly. Of course, lots of siblings didn't resemble each other superficially, but there really was a whole different facial structure here, aside from the eyes, and it wasn't the mother's in either case.

Cuddy spoke up, reclaiming House's attention from sibling comparison. "I assure you, if he is wrong, he _will_ apologize to you. And even if he is right, it definitely should have been expressed more tactfully."

"He is _not_ right," Mrs. Castleton insisted.

"Dr. Foreman, Dr. Taub, and Dr. Kutner can get started on further tests. Dr. House, I'd like to see you in your office immediately." Cuddy marched out the door, obviously in the role of principal, and House gave a parody schoolboyish look of shame in parting to the room as he left. Owing to company in the elevator, Cuddy couldn't properly light into him until they got to Diagnostics, but once there, she wasted no time.

"What the _hell_ did you think you were doing, Greg? _That _was your field test you said you wanted to run?"

"No, actually, it wasn't," House said. His tone, in contrast to hers, was perfectly level and conversational. He walked to his desk and sat down. "The field test was on something different, and I did manage to start it - looks promising - but need lots more data. Somebody hauled me out of there before I could finish. It had never occurred to me to question his paternity until I saw his eyes."

Cuddy sighed. "So you just blurted it out immediately in front of everybody?"

"I wanted to compare their reactions for confirmation. Like I said, _she_ wasn't surprised. That swings it from high statistical likelihood to near certainty, and again, this is all _extremely_ medically relevant to this case. His biological relatives all need kidney screening for their own sake, too."

Cuddy had been pacing a rapid circle in the office as if pursuing the rapidly vanishing donation like a greyhound chasing the rabbit around the track. House gave her a few minutes, and she finally started to wear down. "Do you _really_ think there is a question of the paternity?"

"Yes." His voice was rock solid. "Furthermore, Mama C knows about the possibility. She doesn't know the _fact_, had just tried to shove this skeleton well back in the closet and ignore it for years, and she's hoping that DNA tests will let her off the hook. They won't, though. We haven't got Senior to sample, but I'd swear that those two are _not_ full siblings."

Cuddy came to a resigned stop. "Okay, do your tests. But try not to offend anybody for the rest of the day. And Greg, I swear, if you _are _wrong, you are going to apologize in front of all of them." She turned around to leave the office.

"You're forgetting something," House stated.

She paused. "What?"

"Down in the patient's room, you used the phrase 'I'm sorry,'" he pointed out. Her glare at him was response enough. She resumed her exit. "You're right; I guess we should collect on that later, this being work and all." One shoulder twitched in exasperation or amusement as she left the room.

House sat there for a few minutes, replaying that confrontation in the patient's room and everything that had been going on during it. He eventually got up and limped into the conference room, sitting down on the table, studying the whiteboard. The family's offense was already forgotten in the medical differential.


	14. Chapter 14

The team had returned to the conference room, having taken multiple samples from Castleton and his brother (though not permitted yet from his mother) and set those tests in motion at the lab. House stood at the whiteboard, and he underlined again congenital vs. acute beside jerk. He then turned around. "So, medically speaking, what can make someone act like a jerk?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. Taub considered the question, and Kutner considered House. Earlier this morning, House hadn't really wanted the interplay and had pushed the ending of the differential, hurrying to his office. Now, he was in classic Socratic mode, clearly with something in mind but wanting the team to arrive at his conclusion for themselves. What had happened between?

"Hormone imbalance," Taub suggested.

House nodded. Good answer but not the one he was thinking of. "Wouldn't hurt to test." He doubted it, though.

"There _is_ an element of congenital jerkness here," Foreman pointed out. "That is, unless the entire family including alleged half siblings has the same hormone imbalance. Some people are just born that way, after all; there doesn't _have_ to be a medical explanation."

House gave him a nod, acknowledging the unspoken thought. "Flattery will get you nowhere. But it is a point. Some are born to jerkhood, some achieve jerkhood, and some have jerkhood thrust upon them. Or option D, multiple of the above."

"Going by what his girlfriend said," Taub put in, "he's been more irritable lately and hasn't paid as much attention to her input." That was, after all, the line that had given House an idea earlier.

"Exactly." House sounded pleased. "Even conceding that he was born a jerk, he's been worse lately. Why would he be more irritable and less responsive to what others say?"

"Stress," Foreman suggested.

"What else?"

Kutner tilted his head suddenly, considering the girlfriend's comment. House looked at him, expectant, waiting. "You do mean something _medical_, not just psychosomatic?"

"I might," House replied. "Or I could mean both."

"What if -" Kutner was drawing it out, thinking as he went. "Maybe he's slowly developing problems with his hearing. It could be that he isn't ignoring her but just isn't hearing things quite straight unless he's focused on the speaker at the time. That could also lead to irritability, especially if he was in a setting where multiple people were speaking, like socially or even at the company at meetings if they really got a discussion going. He might not even be consciously aware of it yet, might just think they're mumbling, which would make him annoyed and snappy."

"BINGO." House gave him a genuine smile, then turned to write Hearing? on the whiteboard. "Think about it. Foreman said himself he had trouble getting his attention away from the laptop occasionally. Hearing is what I went down there to get a reading on, although their inconvenient status fit and denial got in the way of a full test. But every time, Castleton was slightly behind in reactions to auditory stimuli that took place to the side rather than in front of him. When I walked in, he was the last to look up. When he and his brother were going at it, his brother looked to a new speaker _first_, and Castleton drew the cue from him and then turned a half second later. When I made a comment to the mother while turned mostly away from him, he was still trying to sort out that question a few seconds later and didn't reply to Cuddy until she'd repeated the point to him. It's nowhere close to deafness, not yet, but I think he is having trouble registering sounds clearly unless he's focused straight on the speaker and working to pay attention. Good call, Kutner."

"He's pretty young for hearing problems," Taub pointed out.

"He's pretty young for renal problems, too," House countered. "Put them together, and you get what? What can cause renal problems and associated hearing problems with initial presentation in the late teens to early 20s?"

All of them saw it together, though it was Foreman who filled in the blank. "Alport syndrome."

"X-linked is by far the most common type, making the mother the carrier," Kutner said. "She could be asymptomatic, 50% chance to her children. If the sons got the bad gene from her, _both_ of them would have the disease, with no extra X chromosome to buffer the abnormal one. No question of maternity, apparently. Autosomal recessive is about 10-15%, and autosomal dominant is rarest of all, just a percent or two. He might be slightly late developing symptoms, but it's well within the variation range."

"Making the question of the parents even more relevant," Taub said. Autosomal recessive syndromes were passed along when each parent has a defective gene, and both contribute it, with the combination of the two bad genes forming the disease. Autosomal dominant syndromes can be passed by only one parent with the defective gene.

"Precisely," House said. "Maybe that idiot mother will see the point now. It would be ironic if she was the carrier for X-linked and gave it to him herself. Of course, if it's autosomal recessive or autosomal dominant with the father the carrier, she had supremely bad luck picking a cheating partner, so it's _still_ her fault."

"We need to check the eyes," Kutner said. "Not as common as kidney and hearing problems, but it can show up. To confirm Alport, genetic testing takes a little while, but we could do a kidney biopsy faster. Electron microscopy would show up the changes in the walls of the blood vessels of the kidney."

"Skin biopsy is much less invasive," Foreman pointed out. "Type IV collagen alpha 5 chain also occurs in the skin."

"Also less diagnostic," House countered. "Yes, it would tell us if it's X-linked, but it won't diagnose autosomal dominant or recessive varieties."

"X-linked is 80-85% of all cases," Foreman insisted. "Makes sense to run the simpler test first."

"80-85% isn't 100%," Kutner protested.

House nodded in approval. "Plus there's the family. If it isn't X-linked, do you want to be the one to go back to them and get consent for a kidney biopsy, telling them that it was the more conclusive test and we just wasted time with a lesser test first?"

Foreman silently conceded that point after a moment. Kutner grinned. "Okay," House said. "We're going back down there. I will do the talking, and I will specifically be testing his hearing subtly, so don't be making silent comments on manners like you were this morning, Foreman. Medicine trumps manners. Assuming that he continues to show that there might be hearing problems, we'll present the possibility of Alport and get permission for hearing testing and a kidney biopsy. By tomorrow, DNA will be back, and we can tackle the question of identifying and testing parents - the _real _ parents, I mean - and definitely the other brother for Alport, too. For their own health, they need to know."

"You're assuming the real father is alive," Foreman said. "The real father, if he's still around, hasn't been involved or acknowledged his kid in any way in 23 years. Maybe he's dead. Or maybe he's in denial, too; he _did_ know of the possibility if he has any contact with the family unless he sucks at math. If he's not dead, he's apparently just ignored his son all his life." House flinched.

"We don't know that, because the mother is lying to us," Kutner replied, shuffling papers to make the others look back at him and give House a moment. "Maybe he's pretending to be a family friend and watching from a short distance. Or maybe he really didn't realize or follow up with her and was absent for that reason."

"On the other hand, maybe he just didn't care or was practicing self preservation," Foreman continued. "Would you want to join that loving family circle if you had a choice?"

House grinned faintly there, recovering himself, and put down the marker. "Speaking of that loving family circle, let's go. And remember, we're at least getting paid to enter this arena of combined congenital and acute jerkhood."

(H/C)

Late that afternoon, House sat in his office, lost in thought. The Castletons didn't improve upon further acquaintance, but the patient had at least consented to formal hearing testing, simply to prove House wrong, because there was _nothing_ wrong with his hearing, and he _hadn't_ been unusually irritable lately. He would get an add-on appointment in Audiology last slot this evening. The kidney biopsy was scheduled for tomorrow. The team was off checking on all of the tests in progress right now, but at the moment, there was nothing more for House to do. He was confident in his diagnosis, even if it would take on into tomorrow to prove it to this stubborn family.

That left him alone to think, and with the patient diagnosed and the medical mystery over, his thoughts returned annoyingly like a homing beacon to Thornton. The world was conspiring against him. Even the differentials seemed determined to keep his thoughts and feelings about his biological father on the front burner.

Foreman and Kutner had summed up the possibilities very accurately. Either the father truly did not know (and he was an idiot if he didn't have some suspicions if he was close enough to the Castleton circle to have seen the pregnancy), or he was watching from a distance as a family friend, probably choosing to leave his son in that supposedly better environment, defined purely in dollars, or he was chickening out, or he just didn't care, or he was dead.

Growing up, House had had no doubt at all which of those categories Thornton fell into. The man had laughed at him, after all, and told him he belonged there. How could _anybody_ think that John's household was a secure, safe one? Thornton, being neither dead, stupid, nor (completely) absent, clearly just hadn't cared.

Only apparently he had been involved behind the scenes, something House had never suspected. He had provided the music. He had apparently cared at least somewhat. But he still didn't have the excuse of being dead. Was he in fact just stupid?

House unlocked his desk drawer, removing the picture of his grandfather, and studied it again. A fun-loving father who played alongside his child, who gave him birthday parties, who brought a horse into the kitchen while the mother agreed that the occasion was more important than floors. That was the example of parents Thornton had had. And coming from there, he had thought that John - and even Blythe - were _better_ as a situation for his son? House still couldn't comprehend it.

He wished he had known his grandfather. Maybe his grandfather would have seen the truth sooner. Then he wouldn't have been trapped back in the family that he grew up in.

His mind ran back into the past, following the parallel tracks of what might have been and the cold steel of what his childhood actually was.

(H/C)

Wilson had had a horrible day. Not only one patient but two crashing now, and probably both wouldn't last out another 24 hours. He had juggled them in turn this afternoon, calling for family, waiting as they came. One set of long distance relatives was here finally, the other coming. Sandra had just stopped by the room with the patient still waiting for relatives and insisted that Wilson take a break and go eat in the cafeteria. She had to leave herself and relieve the nanny, but an aide promised to stay with Mrs. Williamson while Wilson took a 30-minute break. He parted from Sandra in the elevator, going back to his office for something, but did promise to eat and to call her later with an update.

Now, as he headed for his office, he paused as he looked automatically toward House's. The lights were on, and he could clearly see House sitting still at his desk. The man was rarely completely still physically unless he was in an epiphany, usually at least had the ball tossing or the fingers dribbling, but right now, he was motionless, and his expression wasn't that of intense differential. He looked lost in thought, regretful, and almost wistful, a very odd combination. He was holding something, looking at it, though obviously looking on through it, too. It was the catalyst of his thoughts, not the total of them. Unable to resist investigating, Wilson walked over to the office. He tapped once very lightly just to say honestly that he had. House, as predicted, never looked up. He was totally in his own world at the moment, and that world wasn't a medical one.

Wilson entered the office and walked softly across the room. It was a picture, apparently, that House was holding, odd in itself since he disliked looking at pictures, always calling them posed fakes. Was that writing on the back? House's fingers partially obscured it, but it looked almost like figures to Wilson's long-distance squint. Surely he wouldn't have a picture with the phone number of his partner in infidelity from this weekend? Still, Wilson had never seen quite this expression on House before, and he had decades of experience with his friend to draw from. He crept closer stealthily, pushing guilt down with the thought that he wasn't sneaking up behind House, after all. He was sneaking up on a front diagonal, and House could have seen him easily if he'd just looked up. Within a few feet, Wilson made an abrupt grab for the picture and the chance to obtain some data for himself.

House jumped a country mile before the hand ever reached him, nearly falling off his chair, though he did _not_ drop the picture. Rather, he tightened up on it possessively, clutching it to him, giving Wilson no chance to see the subject and blocking even more of the digits on the back than previously. House stared at him, seeming totally disoriented for a moment.

"House?" There was real concern in Wilson's voice now, and the picture retreated from his thoughts. House was breathing quickly. Wilson truly had scared him for a moment. "It's okay. It's just me."

House closed his eyes, then immediately reopened them, taking a deep breath, focusing now. "Easy," Wilson said. "I apologize; I didn't mean to startle you like that." He reached out - gently this time - toward his friend's wrist, trying to check his pulse, and House pulled away.

"Quit it. I'm fine." He took another few deep breaths, and then the anger hit. "Damn it, Wilson! Why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that?"

"I knocked," Wilson protested feebly. "You didn't hear me." He looked at the picture, still turned with the face to House's chest. "You were looking at that. Is that a picture?"

House quickly went into action, unlocking his desk drawer and returning the picture to it, carefully keeping the face away from Wilson. He relocked the desk and pocketed the keys. "It's obviously a picture," Wilson protested.

There was an accusing glint to the blue eyes now. "You tried to grab it away from me. You reached out suddenly. At least . . ." He drifted off, trying to replay his abrupt emergence from thoughts of childhood. That sudden hand had been real, hadn't it? Ripped from memories, he had thought at first it was John, but he was sure the grab had been real.

"I didn't . . . okay, I did reach out for it. I was just curious, that's all. Was that a phone number written on the back?"

"No." House's left fingers were dribbling on the edge of the desk now, his right massaging his leg gently. "Wilson, it seems a little obvious to have to mention this at this point, but if I'm ever totally lost thinking about something and don't know you're there, it's not the greatest idea to make a sudden grab at me."

Wilson looked down at his shoes guiltily. "Sorry. I mean. . ."

"Oh, forget about it. How's your patient from earlier?"

"Dying, probably. Two of them now. I doubt I'll get out of here tonight, not for several hours, anyway."

"Be sure to call Sandra and let her know that's where you are," House suggested.

Wilson immediately got defensive. "Of _course_ I'll call Sandra. You don't have to remind me of that. In fact, she knows what's going on with the patients already. She stopped by on her way home and insisted I go to the cafeteria for a quick break. You want to come? I was just on the way there."

House considered and looked at his watch. "Probably no time tonight; I promised the girls a piano session, so I don't need to be late. We ought to set up a night out sometime, though. Haven't had one in a week and a half. How's everything doing with the kid?"

"He's fine. Growing steadily now." Wilson was puzzled at the shielded urgency behind House asking about Daniel, but he took advantage of the suggestion. "A night out is a great idea. Tomorrow's liable to get tied up with patients, too; hope I don't have to cancel Jensen. What about Thursday?"

"That works. We need to talk."

Now _this_ was more like it. "Yes, we do. Great, Thursday night it is."

Cuddy entered the office at that moment, her stride brisk and business like. House looked up. "Yes, mistress? Your wish is my command."

"Drop the smile, Greg. I'm still annoyed at you." Her tone was harsh, and Wilson flinched. "You can earn some brownie points to work off your deficit, though. I have to make a quick stop on the way home. Since the patient is just testing right now, can you go on and relieve Marina? I hate to ask her to stay late. You can even go ahead and start dinner, but not like you did last night. A _real_ dinner."

"Sure. How many brownie points will apply for that?"

Cuddy kept her face strict. He was _not_ going to make her laugh right now, damn it, because she really _was _still annoyed at him. "I'll have to decide later. Depends on how you do with dinner." She turned around and stalked out, and both House and Wilson watched her rear end twitch through the door.

"Well," House said, rubbing his leg more firmly preparatory to getting up. "That answers the question about tonight, anyway. You'd better head to the cafeteria to fortify yourself for another death watch, and I'd better get home."

This obviously wasn't the right time to delve into more extensive subjects with both of them on deadlines. "Right. Remember, we're going out for a guy's night on Thursday. Think Cuddy will let you?"

"Oh, sure, I'll be out of the dog house by then. I earn brownie points well when I want to."

Wilson swallowed. "That's . . . good. Well, I'd better go eat. Sandra will ask later to make sure I did, and there's an aide who's patient sitting at the moment." He left the office, his mind still whirling. House would be out of the dog house by _Thursday_? Cuddy was still mad at him, but things like starting dinner would apply to working off his deficit?

The oncologist was still concerned about his friend, but part of him deep down couldn't help feeling resentment. It just wasn't fair.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Another short chapter quickly, courtesy of Labor Day weekend, when some of us still have to allegedly labor and wind up just sitting in front of the computer waiting for work to download for a good bit of that. You've got a decent chance at more this weekend, too, as I'm set to work both today and Monday, and it's slow as molasses in January. At least I have the computer to keep me company, so not totally lost time, just unpaid time. This little scene contains a high sugar and calorie content warning. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

By the time Cuddy pulled into her driveway, she felt exhausted. It struck her as she exited the car that she did _not_ have a headache like last night, although today had hardly been easier. The problems of today, though, had been all centered on House instead of from multiple directions. Still, the day had been a figurative if not literal headache. The Castleton outrage, as the nurse had reported, had been easily audible outside the room, not House's comments but their reactions. The grapevine was buzzing in consequence, and she had already had to disrupt a few corner conversations - fortunately discreetly away from other patients - about House's latest stunt and to remind them in blazing terms about confidentiality, even though the gossip focus was on House's utter lack of tact and social awareness and not on the alleged information about the patient's family. Cuddy gritted her teeth, remembering that confrontation, imagining the total dollars running in reverse like a negative gas pump. He absolutely _would_ have to make a sincere apology in front of the whole family if he was wrong. She would see to that.

Deep down, though, she didn't think he was wrong. He even had redeemed himself somewhat by his brilliant work the rest of the day. His ideas on the hearing problems, reported to her in an update mid afternoon, were intriguing in retrospect, and she kept replaying the earlier scene from that angle in memory, watching Castleton's reactions.

She opened the door to a delightful smell wafting out. Rachel was first to reach her, of course. "Hi, Mama. It's hell day?"

Cuddy looked down at her daughter, biting back a laugh at the serious tone of the question. "It. . . well . . . ask your father what today was like." She picked Rachel up and gave her a hug.

"She already asked me the minute I walked in," House reported, trailing Abby from the kitchen. "I told her to ask you. Hate to put words in your mouth, you know. So tell me, Lisa, was this hell day?"

"You know good and well what today was like," she scolded, but she was softening. "That does smell delicious, Greg."

"Translate that into brownie points."

"Only after I taste it." She put down Rachel and greeted Abby, then headed to her husband for as much of a welcome-home kiss as they could have in front of their daughters. "Mmm. On second thought, today could have been worse. We could be part of the Castleton family instead of this one."

He gave a dramatic shudder. "Truly the stuff of nightmares." He limped back toward the kitchen, and she trailed him as Rachel launched into an account of her own day ("NOT hell day") and Abby threw in a quiet but firm reminder about the promised piano session later.

Dinner really was delicious, serving to relax her, and the thought of the Castletons retreated a little more. Afterward, Rachel got the first piano lesson, and Abby went with Cuddy back to the nursery to read a book. Partway through the book, though, Abby suddenly perked up and looked toward the closed nursery door. "Dada playing now!" she announced. Sure enough, the distant sounds finding their way around the door could never have been Rachel, or even House in lesson mode. Cuddy tried to read on for a sentence, but she had completely lost her audience. Abby was riveted on the closed door. Giving up, Cuddy closed the book and stood, opening the door. Obviously, Rachel's lesson had been truncated.

Abby ran down the hall, pulled forward by a rope of sound. Cuddy followed. House was indeed at his baby grand now, Rachel's abandoned mini piano in the floor. His fingers were absolutely flying, and Rachel was still for once at his elbow, rapt. Abby came up on the other side but stopped, not approaching too closely lest she interfere with the music, content just to watch. House finished and sat back with a satisfied grin. He looked from one of his daughters to the other. "How did you like that?"

"YAY!" Rachel was enthusiastic.

Abby's assessment was equally impressed, if more descriptive. "Fast."

"It is fast," House agreed. He looked up at Cuddy. "Rachel asked me to play her something instead." More and more, she was losing interest in her own lessons, content to pound keys just for a few minutes. The fact that House had agreed to cut it off tonight instead of encouraging her for more said a lot to Cuddy, too.

"That wasn't fast; that was blazing. What piece was that, Greg? I don't think I've heard it before."

He looked down at the keyboard, suddenly going thoughtful. "It's called Flight of the Bumblebee." Quickly refocusing on his girls, he looked at them. "Could you hear that, girls? It sounds like a bee buzzing around." Abby looked thoughtful. Rachel made one galloping circuit of the piano complete with buzzing noises but quickly ended her own flight.

"Play it again!" she demanded.

House was raising his hands automatically back to the keyboard. "That's not how you ask, Rachel," Cuddy prompted gently, and House paused, poised and ready but waiting. Rachel held out for a few seconds, then gave in.

"Please play it again."

House launched off again. Cuddy moved closer, fascinated herself. The speed was almost intoxicating, but the song was well named, having also lift, hover, darting back and forth, even making quick dives into flowers. Wow. She could tell, too, that her husband was pushing himself as he didn't usually. Not that he ever held expression back out of music, but he was so talented that not many things technically challenged him anymore. This one did. He stopped for the second time and looked up to see her analytical expression, as much on him as the music. He quickly looked away and changed the subject musically as well as literally. "Okay, now for something completely different." He immediately switched into Disney, more lyrical, more familiar, and not half as technical. He finished that one, then looked down at Abby. "Rachel, it's Abby's turn. You go back and get a book."

"No!" Rachel would far rather continue this wonderful concert. "Play more. Please."

House and Cuddy both grinned at the pleading tone, but he held firm. "Maybe after Abby's turn. The faster you leave now, the faster it will be over."

Rachel charged off immediately, pushing her own limits as House just had. Cuddy gave them a smile and then followed her.

House picked up Abby and set her in his lap. "You can use mine tonight, okay?" Normally, he got out her roll-up keyboard. Using the big piano, which they were forbidden to touch without permission and his supervision, was a treat for her.

His younger daughter reached out toward the keys, touching one. "Teach me Bee?" she asked.

House sighed. She had even landed on the correct starting root note to the first chord, but launching from there into that whirlwind was beyond even childhood genius. "Abby, I can't teach you that piece. Not yet. It's going to take time and a lot of learning the piano on easier things, and your hands have to grow, too. Look." He put his hand on the keyboard beside hers, stretching it out. He had well over an octave in span. "See how many notes I can reach across? Your hands have to grow." Abby stretched out her hand beside his, then snatched it back in one of her rare fits of temper.

"No!"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's just the way it works. You'll have to practice for years, too, while your hands are growing. But someday, you can play that."

She perked up. "Promise?"

House hesitated, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. Did he dare promise her that? What if it went wrong? What if some accident occurred and cost her full use of her hands to that extent? What if she was disappointed in him if the unexpected somehow prevented it and caused him to break his word?

What if he spent her whole childhood hedging on things that he was afraid might come up instead of enjoying it? She _had_ the talent. He was positive of that. This wasn't like promising Rachel, or even like Cathy, whose far easier piece would still push her eventual limits. If nothing went wrong, Abby definitely had this kind of capability, once it was developed with some more size added.

"Promise, Dada," she insisted.

He looked down into his own trusting eyes. She had his grandfather's eyes, too, just as he did. And he knew she had the gift as well. "I promise," he told her solemnly. "It will take a long time, but someday, Abby, you _will_ be able to play that."

Her smile lit her face like a sunrise as always. "Okay. Teach me."

He heard the difference in her tone. She wasn't asking that time for the immediate ultimate; she was asking for the next step along the road. Her pure confidence in his promise awed him - and was a little bit frightening. Even so, he himself still believed it. "That's the spirit, Abby. It will come. Now, find middle C."

She hit it immediately and correctly. She was 23 months old. Marveling again at her, House started the lesson, unable to resist wondering in the back of his mind what his grandfather would have thought of her. Or of him.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: And now to the polar opposite end of the emotional spectrum. I think you'll see why I broke off the earlier scene, even though short, for its own chapter. Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

_Greg settled into the couch and let himself give a small sigh of relief as the door closed behind the departing adults. Relief was the most positive emotion in his world; contentment was unknown, but he relished these rare moments when he was left alone, even if allegedly in trouble. Of course, John would be calling later to check up, and the usual rules applied there, but even so, a couple-of-hour stretch at home with no adults, not having to be on guard, was paradise._

_He didn't mind missing his mother's birthday dinner out at the restaurant. In fact, he had deliberately been two minutes late to dinner last night hoping to be grounded. It was a win-win situation, an evening alone at home and also avoiding spending time with Thomas and his parents. A few bruises were nothing as payment to make for that. _

_He didn't understand Thomas. The man seemed to have an odd sort of intensity to him. Greg had once even thought that Thomas liked him. Of course, that had been proven wrong two years ago when the other man had laughed at him and told him he belonged here. Still, Greg's young but observant eyes had already deduced that his father had few real friends. He associated with the other Marines on the job, but there was nobody else from past postings who made a point of coming back as regularly to visit. Once or so, maybe, but Thomas hadn't been posted with Dad for years, and every year or two, he would turn up again for an evening. Those evenings were painful both in the usual sense, as John made sure to remind him not to say anything suspicious, and in another odd sense, as Greg tried to figure out what on earth the man wanted and why he alone maintained contact. He hated puzzles, and he was sure he was missing something here. _

_Looking at the clock, Greg stood up. This was his chance. He had waited a few minutes in case John turned the car around for a quick sneak check, having "forgotten" something that he would "just run in for a minute" for, but by this point, they would definitely be on their way to the restaurant, and traffic would take a little while. Even if John made a check-up call immediately on arriving there, Greg had a safe buffer zone of a few minutes here. He first went upstairs and retrieved a hidden book from the school library. John disapproved of reading for pleasure, so Greg had to be stealthy. Tonight, he could sit openly in a comfortable chair and read for a few hours. _

_He deposited the book on the couch, then went into the kitchen, trying to decide what might not be missed to supplement the sandwich his mother had made for him a little while ago. He definitely couldn't take a piece of the remainder of her yellow birthday cake with buttercream frosting. Far too obvious. He did allow himself one minute lick of as much frosting as a gentle finger pass along the edge could acquire. He drew it out as long as he could, appreciating the sweetness. John had demanded that he refuse a piece of cake at noon, stating that he didn't deserve it because he was grounded. Greg finally settled on an apple and a can of Sprite. There was plenty of both, and hopefully John wouldn't have bothered to count them. Greg would hide the core and the can at the bottom of the trash before they got home. _

_He returned to the couch and settled down with his book. He made sure to crunch the apple as loudly as he could, relishing not having to keep it quiet. The illicit Sprite was nectar from the gods, and he guzzled it down, then gave a satisfied belch. He even risked getting up to go dispose of that can and take a second Sprite. That would have to be the limit; three would be pushing having the deficit noticed later. Back on the couch, he drank this one more slowly, appreciating the feel of the bubbles, running a taste analysis on the lemon and lime. He sat slightly crooked to cradle the bruised ribs from last night's reminder of the rules when Thomas was visiting, something else he wouldn't be able to do later, and every so often, his right hand would stroke his left arm thoughtfully as he read. The cast had come off his left arm last week, and while it didn't hurt anymore, it still felt a little bit awkward to use. The vivid memory of the stairs almost two months ago surged up, and he shuddered and quickly tried to distract himself with the memory of the x-ray last week at the doctor's office. He had been fascinated, as he usually was with x-rays, often using them to distract himself from pain or fear. He wished he could have a closer look, could trace the bones himself on them and study how they fit together. He even knew the names by now of most of the larger bones. Another book from the library had filled in the gaps from what he hadn't heard directly named by a doctor. Still, the pictures in a book were so much smaller than those large x-ray plates. _

_He finished his apple and read on, soaking up the relief. Nothing like a peaceful night at home. As he sat there, though, a new problem slowly pressed in. More and more, he needed to go to the bathroom. Shouldn't have had two Sprites so quickly. He tried to ignore it, squirming, looking at the clock. This was well into the danger zone now, and John's first check-up call had to come at any minute. When Greg was left home alone under punishment, he had to answer the phone on the first ring. He fidgeted, trying to get lost in the book again, wishing for once that John _would_ call him. After a minute of veiled threats and reminders, he would be safe for a hurried trip to the bathroom. He might even give himself the luxury of a non-hurried trip to the bathroom; John always timed him. _

_The phone did not ring. Greg stared at it accusingly, unable to find any comfortable position now. He felt like he was going to turn into a fountain of Sprite any moment. Finally, he couldn't take it any longer. Putting down the book, he raced at full speed to the bathroom, even using the one downstairs instead of going upstairs. He peed as if in a urine race, but just as the stream finally slowed, the phone rang. Fumbling to do his pants up with his right hand as he ran, Greg bolted back into the living room, reaching out with the stiff left for the phone on the end table, begging it not to ring a second time. _

_CRASH! The lamp on the end table fell off as his still-awkward arm bumped it on the way to the phone. It broke into several pieces on the carpet. Greg stared, horrified, then snatched the phone up halfway through the second ring. "John House residence," he answered, automatically using the correct words. _

_"You were late picking up. What were you doing?" John's voice was soft enough that he was obviously in a public place, no doubt the restaurant, but the quiet danger in his tone was just as chilling. _

_"I . . . I was just going to the bathroom. Sir." Greg's eyes were riveted on the lamp. It was in six pieces, fairly large. Maybe he could glue it. Maybe they wouldn't have to know. He was starting to physically shake, imagining what would happen if his father did know. John could manufacture reasons to punish him; having a legitimate sin this large handed to him on a silver platter would be especially appreciated. _

_"A soldier learns to _control_ his body, Greg, until he has an appropriate time. You knew I'd be calling. Didn't you?" _

_"Yes, sir." _

_"Speak up, Boy. You don't mumble to a superior officer." _

_"Yes, sir." His mind was frantically reassembling the lamp, fitting the puzzle pieces together._

_"Are you _sure_ you weren't doing anything besides going to the bathroom?" _

_The jagged edges of ceramic in the floor stared back at him. "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I was just using the bathroom, sir." _

_"But you _shouldn't_ have been right then, because you knew I would be calling. You should have waited. Shouldn't you?" _

_"Yes, sir." _

_John as usual started getting tired of just talking to him, especially long distance when he couldn't do anything else. "You're pathetic. Don't know why I waste time on you. Just a pathetic, useless weakling. You'll never be a good soldier. We'll discuss being late picking up the phone later on tonight." _

_"Yes, sir." Greg gulped. "Thank you, sir." His father would be waiting for the words._

_"Pathetic." John hung up without any further words. Greg stood motionless, still quivering, waiting. Sure enough, the phone rang again about 30 seconds later. He got it on the first ring. _

_"John House residence." _

_John laughed. He didn't say anything that time, simply laughed. Then he hung up the phone again. _

_The second the phone hit the cradle, Greg was off like a track star breaking from the blocks. He skidded to a halt halfway across the living room, raced back to retrieve the book, apple core and second Sprite can, then bolted to the kitchen to bury all except the book in the trash. He then headed for the stairs. He trotted up them at a fairly good pace, but after hiding the book again, he was unable to make himself trot back down. Remembering falling down that eternal flight, he walked carefully down them, holding onto the bannister right handed. As soon as he hit ground level, he was off again, out to the garage, finding the glue on the storage shelves of tools and fixing supplies. He didn't think John would try calling back at least for a few minutes, and even if John did, if that lamp wasn't fixed, Greg would be in even more trouble. Besides, John really had delayed calling tonight. They couldn't be much longer at dinner. The hourglass of time was running out on him._

_Greg ran back into the living room and dropped to his knees. His bruised ribs were stabbing at him with all this exertion, limiting his breathing, but he barely noticed, only aware of the urgency. Piece by piece, he reassembled the lamp. It was difficult work especially because his left wrist still didn't have full mobility after the weeks of the cast on his forearm. He also tried to rush the first two pieces too much, letting pressure go too soon only to see them slowly fall away. After that, he forced himself to hold each piece in place for the required precious minutes. The glue, which had the temerity to advertise that it "dries clear," looked painfully white and obvious. Just one more piece as soon as this one set. . . _

_The front door opened behind him, and in came the three adults. Greg froze, caught in the act, kneeling on the floor with the last piece and the glue bottle in his hands. _

_"What happened, Greg?" Blythe asked. _

_He gulped and stood up. He couldn't show any fear, any hint that something more was wrong here. John would kill her, and it would be his fault. "I knocked the lamp off," he confessed. "I apologize." Ever since the stairs two months ago, he had started avoiding the word sorry. _

_"Oh, Greg," she replied. "It doesn't matter, dear. He's clumsy sometimes," she explained to Thomas. _

_Thomas walked around to look at it. "He's probably just about to hit a growth spurt. He'll get better. That's really quite good, Greg. I don't think it will be visible except for very close up once the glue dries." _

_Greg looked at him, remembering the laughter from him, remembering the threats from John. He didn't reply. _

_John came over for his own survey. "Well, might as well finish what you started. Put the last piece in, and it will be all fixed." He stood there with that private "later" gleam in his eye. Greg knelt again. He fought to keep his hands from shaking and slowly managed to get the last piece aligned correctly. He held the pressure. _

_Thomas had been watching his hands work, and he frowned slightly. "Is there something wrong with your left wrist, Greg?" _

_John shifted his weight, a silent message. Blythe stepped in to answer. "He broke that arm falling down the stairs. He just got the cast off last week; it's still stiff on that side." _

_"That really is an impressive job fixing the lamp, then. Most 8-year-olds wouldn't have that much precision, even with full use of the hands. Good job." _

_Greg was silent. How could somebody laugh at him, say he belonged here, and then act impressed at his reassembly of the lamp, something that seemed like an easy job to him, or would have if not for the horrible consequences of failure? _

_"What do you say, Greg?" John prompted. _

_"Thank you, sir," he said softly. _

_Thomas reached down to give him a pat on the shoulder as he knelt there. "You don't have to call me sir, Greg." He turned away, walking across the room to study the pictures on the wall. "I like this one. Where was this taken, John?" _

_Blythe and John joined him, John explaining the military function that had been the occasion for that particular shot of the three of them. Greg relaxed a fraction, relieved that everybody wasn't standing there watching him work anymore. With the final piece set in, he stood up, then carefully picked up the lamp and placed it back on the end table. He then picked up the glue. "I'm going to go put the glue up," he announced. He had to come back in promptly, but every step was like approaching a gallows. He was glad for the other adults, now, even though they were just postponing fate. _

_They sat in the living room talking, Greg being quiet unless asked a direct question. After a while, Blythe went into the kitchen and came back with a piece of cake on a saucer. "Here, Greg. It isn't right for you to just skip the cake. Even if you're grounded, my birthday only comes once a year." _

_"Thank you," he said. "I apologize for breaking the lamp." _

_"It doesn't matter." She ruffled his hair. She was well used to him breaking things. "Thank you for the scarf." At least that wasn't breakable and had a chance to last for a while. John would probably eventually see that it was "lost," though. He ate the cake, but there was a cold lump in his throat now, and it didn't taste half as good as that illicit swipe of frosting earlier. John got amused watching him force it down. The others kept up the conversation. Just a routine gathering of friends, catching up with each other. _

_His bedtime finally struck, and Greg stood up. "Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad. Good night, Thomas." _

_"Good night," they replied in chorus, and he slowly went upstairs. He went through the upstairs bathroom, then undressed, put on his pajamas, and climbed into bed. Normally, he would have grabbed a few stolen minutes of reading, knowing the adults downstairs were liable to keep talking for a little while. Tonight, though, he couldn't. Fear sat like a rock in his stomach. Sleep didn't come, of course, and he was still wide awake over two hours later when, once Thomas had left, his short 1-day visit ended, and Blythe was sound asleep, John entered the bedroom. _

_He switched on the overhead light. "You lied to me," he started. "Earlier, you hadn't just gone to the bathroom. You broke the lamp before I called, didn't you?" _

_A fine shiver ran through Greg, and he tried to push it back and be strong. "Yes, sir," he admitted. _

_"But you didn't tell me that. You were going to try to hide it." _

_"Yes, sir." _

_John smiled, one of his chilling private smiles when no mask was needed. "So just tonight, you've added four other faults to already being grounded. You broke the lamp, you were late picking up the phone, you lied to me, and you let Thomas notice that your arm had been hurt." _

_"I couldn't help that. My fingers wouldn't. . ." Greg trailed off in mid protest as John took a step toward the bed. _

_"Are you saying I'm wrong, Boy?" _

_"No, sir." _

_"So you did all of that?" _

_"Yes, sir." _

_"Why?" _

_Greg recited the well-known answer. "Because I'm a pathetic weakling, sir, and I'll never be worth anything." _

_John smiled again. "So now, I'm going to have to punish you for these four new things." _

_"Thank you, sir." _

_John pulled the vise grips out of his pocket and started for the bed. Greg cringed back into the mattress. "You belong here, Greg," John said as he whipped the covers off. "Don't ever forget that. This is only what you deserve." _

(H/C)

"Greg?"

Her voice finally reached through the fog, and he snapped back abruptly into the present. There was always a jolt crossing over. The past and the present simply did not fit together seemlessly, and it always took a moment to remember it was over. Of course, the pain in his leg helped remind him of the present soon enough. It never liked waking up like that. He reached down for it and opened his eyes to Cuddy's worried ones. She had already turned on the lamp earlier.

"Easy, Greg. It's okay. It's all over now." She waited a few seconds just holding him, making sure he was oriented again, then slipped out of bed herself and came around to work on his leg. He leaned back, his mind retrieving that night long ago. Damn Thornton. It had been his email, his story of the other side, that had set it off. Cuddy's hands felt warm and soothing and gentle on his leg. She didn't push for an explanation, and he let himself just enjoy her hands for a few minutes, reminding himself that this was what he had now.

Finally, when she was starting to get more worried herself - he could tell by her eyes - he spoke, trying to lighten the mood. "And you think there's something wrong with me dreaming about chocolate cake." They had had a disagreement about that last night after the girls went to bed.

Cuddy gave a weak smile in return. "I think you ought to talk about dreaming about chocolate cake with Jensen. I wasn't suggesting nightmares instead." She gave his leg a final few strokes. Belle jumped back up on the bed; she knew herself how he came out of nightmares by now and always retreated until the abrupt aftermath was over. She walked up him, purring solicitously. "Feel better now?" Cuddy asked.

He nodded slowly. She returned to her own side of the bed and climbed back in, snuggling up against him, but she didn't switch off the light. He scratched Belle's ears. "Thomas . . . Thornton sent me an email after the package got here yesterday. He mentioned something. I was just remembering the other half of the story."

Her arm around him was reassuringly real, clear around his back, stroking his upper arm on the right. She waited for a moment, then asked tentatively, "About the music?"

"Him, yes. What I was remembering, no. Definitely not anything like the chocolate cake dream." He shuddered again and slid closer to her. "I'll tell you sometime about the music but not right now."

"Okay, Greg. It's okay." They just lay there in bed silently, together but mutually tense. After about twenty minutes, the alarm clock went off, and he groaned. Cuddy sighed and switched it off. "Go back to sleep if you can." He shook his head, not even wanting to try. "In that case, I'm going to run out to the store real quick. Keep an ear out for the girls."

He sat up straighter and quirked an eyebrow at her. "At 5:00 a.m.?"

"There are 24-hour stores for a reason." She leaned over to kiss him. "Back soon."

By the time she returned, he was up and playing the piano softly, quiet, thoughtful pieces. He broke off quickly when she re-entered, though, and limped to join her. "So what's in the sack?"

"Breakfast part one, but don't tell the girls. This is just for us. We ought to start today on a better note than we have so far." She headed for the kitchen and unpacked a personal-sized, packaged serving of chocolate cake. Taking two forks from the drawer, she returned to the table. "Sit down, Greg. We need to finish this before they get up."

He grinned, dropping into the chair across from her. "Lisa Cuddy-House is not only skipping yoga but is having chocolate cake for breakfast?"

"Just this once. Don't get used to it."

"And does this mean you agree that I don't have to talk about cake with Jensen?"

"Nice try." She took a bite herself, trying not to think about the calories involved. "Mmm. Come on, Greg."

He took a bite. It was good, sweet, helping to push back the past. He still felt a bit jangled in general, but there was no lump in his throat with this piece, no fear, no danger. They ate together in silence, further words unneeded, but her right hand stayed on his left arm throughout the meal, just being there.


	17. Chapter 17

Oddly, House was already in the conference room making coffee when the team arrived shortly before 8:00. He was no longer habitually and chronically late as in the era BC (before Cuddy), although they didn't fully realize how much of that was due to finally getting his sleep cycle more regulated. But he rarely beat them to work, either. He also looked like he hadn't had the best of nights.

"You're here," Foreman said, first of the team to arrive, though he'd seen Kutner just exiting the stairwell as he himself left the elevator.

"I work here," House replied over his shoulder. "Is this going to be a state-the-obvious morning?" He turned away from the coffee pot just as Kutner entered. "How's Non-Jr. Bucks this morning?"

Foreman cringed. "Please don't call him that when we get down to the room."

"If the shoe fits . . . which isn't the point. How is he?"

"I don't know yet, House. I just got here. He was stable at last check last night, had just finished the audiology testing, and the nurses would have called us if he'd crashed."

Kutner studied his boss more closely. "Are you okay?"

House glared at him. "Kutner, go find the DNA results. We had a rush on those; even with the Y-chromosome special testing, they were supposed to be done by this morning. Taub - " The plastic surgeon, just entering, stopped with a resigned expression. He hadn't even made it to the table. "Go to audiology and see if the formal analysis of last night's test data is done yet. If it isn't, sit on an audiologist until it is. Foreman, make sure everything is still set for the kidney biopsy later this morning, then pick up the latest basic labs, which the nurse should have drawn two hours ago, and go check on Non-Jr. Bucks. We'll be down there soon as the DNA and audiology results are in. Don't worry; I'll just call him NJB to his face. Secret code. He'll never figure it out. Now scram."

The team departed, reading the mood of the morning well enough, though Foreman did congratulate Kutner in the elevator for getting House ticked off at them for a minimum of the next hour.

House himself poured a cup of coffee and limped into his office, dropping into his desk chair with a sigh. The chocolate cake had been a sweet thought, literally and figuratively, and had helped, but he still felt cheated out of part of the night's sleep, and the shadow of the memory of the desperate and failed race to fix the broken lamp hovered over him. He took a deep gulp of coffee, burning his tongue on it, and tried to focus on something else. The patient was solved, even if his paternity wasn't, and thus had moved to a rear burner mentally. The first open subject that popped into House's mind, of course, was Thornton, and that annoyed him more. He abruptly logged onto his email and sent a quick message.

_You made me have a nightmare last night remembering what really happened on that birthday of Mom's. NO, you didn't know all of the story, not even half of it, and you even missed something you had a chance to pick up on. So now I get to deal with the latest jerk patient this morning while short on sleep. Thanks a lot. _

It was only after he hit send that he remembered that he hadn't intended to contact Thornton until next Tuesday. Oh, well, credit himself for next Tuesday in advance, and that extended it to next Friday.

Throwing the subject of Thornton back firmly into the pond, he took another swallow of coffee and let his mind choose again. This time, he came up with Wilson, and he sat back and made a concerned jotting down of the evidence as he knew it so far. House didn't know that his friend had actually slipped in the last few days, but he was certain that the subject of cheating, in general if not in specific, was very much on his mind. Wilson had _that_ particular brand of concern/denial/agitation in him. House was looking forward to tomorrow night's guys' night out, when he would ruthlessly extract the full details, but he also was hoping that Wilson would talk to Jensen this afternoon about it. No harm in a shotgun approach, using both psychiatrist and friend in hopes of having at least one pellet hit the target and be effective. Sandra was the best Wilson had ever found, and there was Daniel also to consider now. House truly hoped his friend hadn't done something else that would hurt his relationship with them.

Wilson _had_ been making progress, though, slowly but surely. House had even thought lately once or twice that he was _almost_ to the point of truly, 100% committing to this relationship, even letting down the shields he never had with anyone before. All that Sandra had ever wanted was to be let in without the part Wilson always held in reserve, to get a full commitment to his family. More than talking to House or to Jensen, Wilson needed to talk to her, but wound up as he was now, House thought it would help to talk it out with Jensen or himself first. And that was assuming he hadn't done something new that was stupid and had only been thinking about it. If he _had_ cheated again, House knew Wilson had killed his chances. Sandra would never shut him out of Daniel's life, but any shot with her would be over. She had given him another chance after the first time, but she refused to be multiple choice, and House couldn't blame her.

The oncologist definitely was falling back into his old distraction from his own problems by analyzing others habit this week. House cringed, remembering the way that Wilson had abruptly tackled the subject of Thornton Monday on the way to the aborted lunch. It was a topic he'd only mentioned twice before, each time with spectacularly bad timing and both times with judgmentalism attached in the tone. House didn't discuss Thornton easily with _anybody_. Even Jensen with his unfailing courtesy was hard to talk to, though House grudgingly did discuss it in sessions, knowing that the talking helped. Cuddy at least would take small bites as offered. She probably had talked more about Thornton with Patterson than with House. Not that Thornton was _that_ big a deal with him, of course, but she thought he was, and House admired and appreciated her restraint. No, Thornton was _not_ going to be available as a convenient topic just to distract Wilson from his own worries by letting him pick at somebody else.

Then there was Wilson's snatch at the picture last night. He couldn't have known that was tied to Thornton; he was apparently just looking for something else to analyze, any other secret to probe as he tried to forget his own problem. House shivered, remembering briefly how he had thought at first the hand was John's. Good thing he hadn't actually had a flashback there. He even gave himself credit for managing not to flay Wilson when his pulse was still galloping.

But Wilson _was_ worried acutely about something, and he needed to talk through it. Either today with Jensen or tomorrow night with House, they had to get to the bottom of this for Wilson's sake, without using Thornton as an enticing side rabbit for his friend to chase.

Thinking of the picture reminded House of something, and he opened his locked desk drawer. He'd left it unlocked last night after taking the picture of his grandfather and the CD out; both were now safe at home. Sure enough, the contents of that drawer were ever-so-slightly moved. The searcher had been making an effort to be careful, but House had specifically left the top post-it pad a precise distance from the corners of the notebook it was on. It was now at least half an inch to the right, more centered than before. There had been two possible candidates for curiosity as to that drawer, Wilson and Foreman, but House's money was on Wilson. Foreman simply did not care that much; curiosity wasn't worth the effort for him. Whatever Wilson's other faults, he definitely did care.

House closed the drawer and grinned, imagining the careful search for that picture. The expression faded back into worry after a moment, though. "We need to talk," he told the drawer. "You need to talk to _somebody_, anyway." He logged into the hospital patient database, calling up Wilson's patient list. Crashing patient number one had kicked the bucket last night, number two still hanging on. House hoped she would obligingly go on this morning, letting Wilson keep his appointment in Middletown. House would keep an eye on her status in and around everything else. Jensen was far better at the talking stuff than House was.

His email chirped, distracting him from worry about his friend, and he switched back over to find the picture from Cuddy and a quick note. _Amazing likeness, isn't it? Have a good morning, Greg. Love, Lisa._

He scrolled down to study Jensen's stealth shot taken Friday during Cathy's piece. There _was_ an amazing similarity of expression. Doing a joint differential on this picture with the memory of the other one, House also noticed that he definitely had his grandfather's hands in addition to the eyes. The main other thing that struck him was how much older he looked. Of course, his grandfather had died at age 35, so it made sense that House at his age looked older, but still, the comparison reminded him of the aches not only in his leg but the cumulative mileage aches beginning to creep up elsewhere. He rubbed his leg in thought.

The email chirped again, and a reply from Thornton popped up in his inbox below the picture from Cuddy. House looked at it for a long while, then sighed and slowly clicked on it, wondering how Thornton would react to the tone of his own message. Might as well read it and get it over with.

_I realize I missed things. Definitely your wrist and something with the lamp that night, I think, probably other things, too. Maybe if you told me the other side of the story, I could have the nightmares tonight, and you could dream of music._

_Thomas_

House shook his head. Oh, no. No way was he giving Thornton of all people a detailed blow-by-blow (literally at times) of his memories. Besides, the man wouldn't really want those nightmares instead. Give him only one of them, and he'd be ready to trade back immediately. He didn't realize what he was suggesting. Still, House was grudgingly impressed at Thornton's lack of defending himself and that he even remembered the wrist and the lamp tied to that night decades ago. House hadn't thought he'd been paying that much attention. Even more impressive was his infallible patience. Did _anything_ make the man mad? House had been trying fairly steadily for two months now to provoke him, and not once had Thornton returned fire.

Abruptly the memory swam up to the surface of his mind of Thornton's voice, every bit as chilling as John's ever had been, as he threatened Patrick's defense attorney. _"Made me think about what I'd like to do to you. You attacked my son, you son-of-a-bitch."_ The confrontation that couldn't possibly have been staged for House's benefit. Thornton didn't even know House had heard a recording of it. Part of House had waited at first for Thornton to play that card, to mail his own recording in an effort to manipulate his son into thinking better of him, but the older man had never brought it up. Gradually, House had realized that he never would. It truly hadn't been for dramatic effect to earn himself brownie points.

So the man had a temper. He just seemed determined almost never to show it. House reread the email and shook his head again. "What do you _really _want?" he asked the screen.

The screen didn't reply. Nor, this time, did House, simply closing the email unanswered. He wasn't going to satisfy Thornton's curiosity by putting his memories on parade. He logged out of the computer and stood up, taking one look across the balcony to Wilson's office, then carrying his empty coffee cup to the conference room for a refill.

Kutner and Taub returned together, bristling with paperwork, and House quickly skimmed through the DNA and audiology testing. Nothing besides what he had expected. He set down his second cup of coffee unfinished. "Looks like it's time to shake the Castleton family tree a little more and see what falls out." He took two steps, then paused and changed course, retrieving a long, blank envelope and tucking the DNA results up inside it. His thoughts now firmly on the patient, he exited the conference room, Taub and Kutner falling into step behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Short Wednesday update with a mostly medical chapter. Next chapter is Jensen and is not short. Thanks for reading!

(H/C)

Foreman was reading through the chart notes from the overnight nurses when House entered the patient's room. The whole entourage was here again, including the younger brother, and they looked up quickly as he entered, waiting for the news.

"So. . ." House drew out the word, making sure that Castleton had time to get focused on him. He faced the patient squarely this time rather than turning partly away or limping around the room and changing sound angles as yesterday. "Your kidney biopsy is set for 11:00 this morning. The results from your audiology testing last night show sensorineural hearing loss, not near the stage of deafness yet, but it would definitely be interfering a little by now with following conversation, particularly when several people are speaking or when you aren't paying close attention."

The girlfriend nodded; she had been the only one of them who believed House's theory of hearing problems from yesterday. Mrs. Castleton and her first son looked startled initially. The younger son was obviously calculating, trying to plug this new factor into the high-dollar equation of the management of Castleton Enterprises. He had been afraid to believe it yesterday, only hopeful. "How can we stop it?" Castleton asked finally.

"We can't," House informed him. "You're almost certainly going to be totally deaf within another decade or two. Hearing aids will probably help for the moment, and we can get you fitted for those during admission while we're stabilizing kidney function."

"But I'm _23_!" Castleton protested. "Hearing aids are for old people!"

"Only if you're dealing with the usual causes, lifelong gradual decline due to noise exposure and loss of flexibility of the nerves. Hearing loss from genetic causes, which this is, has no age restrictions. Practice lip reading, too; you've probably already started to work on that subconsciously."

"That would be quite a handicap in the corporate world as it gets worse," Brad said thoughtfully. "Meetings and such."

"Another option to look into later is cochlear implants, but you need to have failed hearing aids first. They are also far more obvious than hearing aids."

"Implants." Castleton shook his head. "Are those the electronic things that make people look like the Borg?" Kutner grinned at the image, and House nodded. "I am _not_ wearing one of those."

"Go deaf, then." House shrugged. "To me, the hearing test results plus the renal insufficiency at your age are already diagnostic of Alport syndrome. The kidney biopsy will confirm it and also isolate which type, dominant, which can be transmitted by only one parent, or recessive, which takes two. And, speaking of parents. . ." He took the long, white envelope and opened it with the traditional flourish. "You two do _not_ have the same father. Greater than 99% chance of accuracy, based on the Y-chromosome analysis."

Brad and Brent looked at each other, then both as one at their mother. House looked to her also. "So, the ball is in your court. Rather, the literal balls were in your court about 24 years ago."

She was rocked but still trying to maintain her dignity. "It's not 100% accurate, you said."

House sighed. "Once again, this is _medically relevant_. I'm not trying for a society scoop. _All_ of his biological relatives - and all includes _both_ sides - need to be tested for their own health. Also, if it comes down to kidney transplant, which Alport often progresses to, having a biological relative identified who was _not_ suffering from the disease would probably be your son's best and fastest road to a donor."

"Kidney transplant?" She shook her head. "Surely you can fix this if you know what it is now."

House gave Castleton a minute to get focused back on him, wanting to be double sure he followed this point. "Medicine doesn't work like that. There is no cure for Alport. It is almost certainly going to progress, even with treatment. All we can do is slow it down. The kidney failure and the hearing issues ultimately hit end stage in most patients, especially in males. This disease hits males far harder than females, which is why I can't say yet if the mother has it actively herself and why she needs to be tested. She could have a subsymptomatic case, or could be a recessive carrier, passing the disease along but not having it acutely. Or it could all be through the father, or he is a recessive carrier, too, and the two of them added up to a bad combination. The _real_ father, I mean."

"There's no cure?" Castleton asked, his voice a little tighter now.

"No," House said simply, and there was a note of hidden sympathy now underneath the tone as he addressed the patient himself that hadn't been there with his mother. "It _is_ usually treatable with kidney transplant at the end stages. With medicine and some lifestyle changes, you can most likely delay the end stages. But it's going to happen. You got a bad roll of the genetic dice from your parents."

"Do I have it?" Brad asked.

"Depends on whether the carrier is your mother or his father or both. We can test you. Genetic testing is much less invasive than kidney biopsy, since you aren't acutely symptomatic, although it takes a lot longer to get results. His results as to type will give us a better idea of your chances, too. Again, we need to test _everybody_."

Castleton turned to glare at his mother. "_Who _is my father?" he insisted.

She sighed. "There was one night, years ago, that I had several things going on. I was upset and . . ."

He sliced ruthlessly across her memoirs. "I don't _care_ how. I already get that; you cheated on Dad, and all the explanations you can make don't matter. That's ancient history, but this disease _isn't_. _Who_ is my father?"

"I've never been totally sure," she started.

"You mean there's even more than one option?" House asked. She glared at him.

"_No,_ there isn't more than one option. But I don't _know_ that it wasn't my husband. Just that there was a chance."

"Greater than 99% chance, apparently," Brad noted.

"Shut up, Bradley. You aren't helping." She looked around the team. "You have to keep things confidential, right?"

"Yes, although we can't help it if you people broadcast it to the hallways yourselves. But he _needs_ to be informed, for his health, his possible other children's health, and preliminary donor sorting on that side in case it comes to that down the road."

"I'll tell him myself," Castleton announced. "I have some questions, anyway, like where the hell have you been all my life. Maybe I could have had a father involved somewhat all these years instead of just a corporate president. He could have at least acted like a family friend and showed _some_ interest." Long-buried resentment against his business-hyperfocused surrogate father had started to surge in; he was no longer defending Senior like he had yesterday. He turned back to his mother. "Who is he? If you don't tell, I'll announce it to the press and appeal to him to come forward."

She stared at him. "Brent, you don't know what you're saying."

"Test me." He was definitely getting mad now, at his mother, at his non-father, at his absent father, and beneath it all at the unstoppable disease eating away at him at the age of 23.

She capitulated. "It's Mr. Forest."

Brad burst out laughing, while his brother looked stunned. "Dad's top business rival. The man who has been our primary competition for years on every single contract, including the one up currently. How absolutely appropriate. Obviously, he didn't know, either, or he was deliberately trying to screw Dad over in more ways than one."

Castleton stared at his mother. "Forest? You had an affair with _Forest?_"

"It _wasn't_ an affair," she fired back. "It was just . . . an accident. And he never knew about you, either. We never discussed it."

Brad was studying his brother. "You know, you _do_ look like him somewhat. He had to have at least wondered. It's not like he wasn't following what Dad was doing in life, and he definitely seems to be good at math. How old is his son, do you know, Brent? Maybe you just inherited the wrong company, or would have once Forest himself kicks the bucket."

Mrs. Castleton abruptly turned on the team, clutching her shredded and soiled dignity around her. "Dr. House and all the rest of you, we would appreciate having some time alone now to discuss things _privately_."

"Of course," House agreed with obviously superficial courtesy. "Sounds like you have plenty to discuss. Castleton." He waited until the man looked straight at him. Castleton still looked shell shocked. "The surgery techs will be up around 10:30 to take you to prepare for the kidney biopsy. That will probably wipe you out for the rest of the day, but tomorrow morning, we'll start working out a management plan. We can slow it down. We just can't stop it." Again, there was almost sympathy underlying the tone. House wheeled and limped out the door, trailed by the team. Foreman was so busy at first mentally criticizing how House had spoken to the family that it didn't occur to him until the elevator that not once had his boss called the patient NJB as promised. He had, in fact, referred to him by name, very odd for him. Foreman shook his head. He would _never_ fully understand House.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Whoof! Jensen super session of the week #1. The man does earn his pay. Hopefully, I do, too, in reviews. As I've said, to everything, there is a reason. Thanks for reading.

(H/C)

As he had looked through notes for his patients first thing Wednesday morning, Jensen had expected Wilson's appointment to cover the same ground as usual the last several times. He actually thought that Wilson was getting very close to a real breakthrough in his relationship with Sandra, but the closer he got mentally to what he knew he needed to do, the more the looming size of the step spooked him. Thus all of their recent sessions had a similarity to them, and while Jensen had tried a few different ways of approaching it and had another he wanted to use today, he expected this session would have the same primary topic.

He was wrong, and it was to be the first of two sessions this week for him which caught him off guard and hit unexpected rapids.

Wilson as usual entered briskly and went straight to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, face-to-face contact, not wasting time. Underneath the veneer, though, he seemed very rattled today, more than Jensen had seen him at any point since he originally cheated on Sandra a year ago, and the psychiatrist was studying him closely as he stood up from his desk. He hoped that nothing new had happened with Sandra.

"No coffee today." Wilson shook his head for emphasis. "I'm already running on too much. Didn't get much sleep last night between two terminal patients and, well, just thinking. I need your advice."

Jensen dropped back into his chair, aborting his trip to the coffee pot. It was odd for Wilson to turn coffee down, as well. Jensen himself didn't have a cup at every appointment, but he always offered it to the patients. Most of them appreciated the nod at routine and normality contrasting against the often-difficult conversations held inside these walls. "What's happened, James?" Jensen asked, his voice steady and inviting, and he sat back slightly, ready to listen.

Wilson looked around the office as if expecting someone else to be there. "We do have confidentiality," he reminded the other man. "You can't tell House what we've talked about in my sessions."

"Of course." Jensen was truly puzzled now. Occasionally House or Wilson came up as a topic in the other's sessions, usually in some interrelational issue, but he was careful in general and particularly in the case of these two to never break confidentiality from one session to the other, nor to let either of them evade their own issues by merely trying to analyze the other's problems in absentia.

"I need some help dealing with a problem with him and advice for when I talk to him tomorrow night. You need to know this anyway. He's really done something stupid this time."

Jensen tilted his head. "What's _happened_?" he repeated, starting to get worried for both of his patients. Wilson was clearly tied in knots inside his flawlessly professional suit.

"House cheated on Cuddy last weekend." Wilson was looking straight at Jensen already, but part of him couldn't help watching even more closely for the psychiatrist's reaction. He knew that House was his favorite.

Jensen was as stunned as Wilson had ever seen him. He sat up straighter, his body language not reassuringly open and inviting confidences now, and he was literally speechless for several seconds. "How do you know this?" he asked finally.

Wilson sighed. "I should have expected you to ask about my sources first instead of addressing the fact. Not that I blame you; I was bowled over myself when I first heard. I know because I heard him say so."

Jensen shifted into full speed mentally. It was amazing to Wilson how similar the psychiatrist could look to House sometimes when they were thinking. "You _heard_ him say so. He didn't tell you directly as a fact?"

"No. He told Cuddy."

"In _front_ of you?"

Wilson squirmed a bit in the chair. "They didn't realize I was there. But that's not the point. _Both _of them in that conversation referred to his activities last weekend, and they were both calling it cheating. It was full of phrases like cheating would not be tolerated, and him forgetting what he had at home, and going to some random party, and that he was lucky to have been forgiven this once and might not be let through the door next time."

"Lucky to have been _forgiven_?" Jensen's eyebrows were climbing his forehead. "You're saying that he cheated on Dr. Cuddy just last weekend, and as of no later than today -"

"The conversation was Monday morning," Wilson supplied.

"As of Monday, then, she had already forgiven him?"

That point still rankled with Wilson, and his tone reflected it. "That's what she said. I heard her myself."

Jensen looked skeptical. "But they didn't realize you were there. Did you hear _all_ of their conversation, every word, start to finish?"

"No," Wilson admitted, "but I heard enough. They were both discussing him cheating this last weekend, specifically at some random party. House doesn't even _like_ parties. I can't imagine him going to one in the first place, especially without her."

"He went to Cathy's birthday party last Friday," Jensen said. That was social, not from House's session. "That was hardly a random party, though, and he probably wouldn't have called it that."

Wilson was almost distracted momentarily by that news. "He went to a kid's birthday party? Willingly? Without cash payment?" Jensen nodded. "I don't suppose you had hookers there, did you?"

"At my 10-year-old daughter's birthday party?"

"Yeah, right. Sorry. Look, I realize it's hard to grasp, but there is _no_ doubt what they were discussing. She was mad, too. She even hit him once; I saw it."

"How did he react to that?" Jensen asked.

"Just standard House, deflected, shrugged it off, and said what he did hadn't been a big deal."

Jensen shook his head. If Cuddy ever truly hit House in anger, he would either call her on it immediately or retreat into himself and go silent with no effort at defense, the first being preferable and the second still more likely at this stage. The only scenario that fit his described reaction was a pulled smack that carried no ire at all, with both of them fully aware of that. "They were playing," the psychiatrist stated.

"I was _there_, and you weren't," Wilson reminded him. "I saw her hit him."

"James, why don't you tell me the whole thing, from the beginning. Give me the partial conversation you heard, as near verbatim as you can remember it." Clearly, they needed to spend time on this (carefully not crossing over into House's sessions) before getting down to Sandra; Wilson would be unable to focus on anything else until it was discussed. Jensen already suspected that the misunderstanding was deep down more about Wilson than House anyway.

Wilson launched into the tale from Monday, a conversation he had already replayed mentally dozens of times like a repeating movie reel in his head. For good measure, he added the conversation from yesterday in House's office when Cuddy had said she was still annoyed at him, that one taking place directly in front of Wilson with them both knowing he was there. "What do you make of that?" he said as he finished, and there was a note of challenge underneath his tone. He'd expected Jensen to be shocked at first, as he himself had been, but he hadn't expected such stubborn persistence against the evidence.

Jensen had his analytical expression on again. "The first one, the incomplete conversation, almost sounds like code. I have no idea what they were talking about there, but I think both of them did and that it wasn't what it seemed. That's the trouble with partial conversations; you never get the whole context. I still think that somehow, they were playing with each other."

Wilson was starting to get annoyed now. "Basing that on _what_? Again, I heard it, you didn't."

"Basing it on knowledge of both of them. Assume for a minute that everything was just as it appeared, and they _were_ talking about him having cheated. They aren't reacting strongly enough, either one of them. Dr. House wouldn't dismiss it and brush his actions off as trivial, and there is no way Dr. Cuddy would take it that calmly just a day or two later. You know that yourself on some level, James; that's why you are thinking that it isn't fair. You have thought that her attitude isn't fair compared to Sandra's reaction, haven't you?"

"Yes," Wilson admitted grudgingly.

"Take Sandra on one hand and Dr. Cuddy on the other. Forgetting what you heard Monday, which one of these two do you think comes closer to turning into a wildcat when crossed?" Wilson looked thoughtful, considering that point for the first time. "You know how Sandra reacted. For Dr. Cuddy to react radically _less_ to the same thing isn't just unfair; it's out of character. Besides, I have additional information that you don't. I spoke to Dr. Cuddy myself briefly on the phone late Monday afternoon." That also had been purely social. "I wanted to send her a picture I took of Dr. House at Cathy's party and needed her email address. She sounded stressed out by a bad work day, but there was no tension in her conversation about Dr. House. It was just a day where everything and everyone had been an inefficient problem, as she put it. She even replied to the email later and thanked me for the picture."

"What about the other conversation yesterday? They knew I was there on that one."

"That had to be referring to something else entirely. Think about it; they _knew_ you were there. They didn't know you had heard them Monday, so whatever context that conversation had, it wasn't what you had overheard Monday. It was something they expected you to know already or at least didn't mind you asking about if you didn't know. Was there anything going on at the hospital in the last day or two? Some new stunt Dr. House had pulled? I might not believe he cheated, but I have no trouble imagining him being a handful professionally and creating problems for her."

"I hadn't heard of anything," Wilson replied.

"You said at the beginning you've been tied up with two terminal patients. You've also obviously been chewing over what you heard Monday ever since then."

The oncologist nodded. "One died last night, one this morning. Okay, I _have_ been a little distracted. I guess I could have missed some corner gossip. But even if yesterday's was just about some work thing, that conversation Monday was something else. They _were_ using the word cheating. So you're saying that you think they were just joking together about cheating?"

"Yes."

"How could they make a joke out of cheating?"

"_They_ could, because they completely trust each other in that area. I'm not saying they're perfect at all, just that their sensitive spots are different from yours. There are plenty of things that they would never be able to make a joke out of in their relationship. Such as?" Jensen hesitated, trying to get Wilson to think about it. He was trying to jolt the oncologist out of the mental rut he'd been in, and he thought they were starting to scramble out. They needed to get out of that rut before he flipped the conversation onto Wilson himself in a minute, when it would get much tougher and more personal.

Wilson considered. "His leg," he offered after a moment.

"Absolutely. That is forbidden territory to them, at least for mocking it."

"Or the whole subject of abuse, I guess."

"Right. Everyone has different buttons. Again, I don't know how they got started talking about that Monday, but I truly believe that somehow, they were simply playing with each other." Jensen paused, gathering himself for the next jump. "One thing you didn't say in your report, James. What exactly were you thinking of Monday right before you decided to open the door to eavesdrop on them? What were you trying to distract yourself from at that moment?"

Bull's-eye, and Wilson registered the hit and immediately dodged. "I haven't told you everything else yet. House really _has_ been snappish and upset the whole week. Something is bothering him, and he needs to talk about it, but he won't. It took me forever this week to finally get him to agree to a guy's night out tomorrow to talk. I was thinking about the cheating thing, trying to decide what could be upsetting him enough to make him do that." Jensen had a mental sigh for the being upset leading to cheating thought, an equation that Wilson would automatically plug in. Wilson succeeded in distracting the psychiatrist in the next second, though. "I decided what he's probably most upset about these days is his biological father. So I asked him out to lunch Monday and tried to find out how things were going with his dad, and he nearly took my ears off."

Jensen's sigh was audible that time. "James, _without_ getting into exact details from his sessions, I'd advise you to walk very carefully on that subject."

"I _was_," Wilson insisted. "I just asked how things were with them - I know they're communicating - and offered to listen, and he totally overreacted. There was nothing wrong with how I handled it."

"He didn't give you some kind of a no-trespassing sign first that you ignored and ran through?"

"No." Wilson sounded offended now. "Look, I know you like him, but I don't think you know what he can be like sometimes. He's got all sorts of faults himself. And right now, he's bothered by this, but he won't ever talk to me. I'm trying to be a friend, and he just pushes the concern away and won't discuss things. I'm _worried_ about him and also about him and Cuddy, damn it, and he's just being stubborn. It's like he doesn't value my friendship anymore."

"I know he has faults, James. We all do." And Wilson was dodging again. Whatever he had been chewing on before Monday's eavesdropping, most likely Sandra, was definitely bothering him, even though the offended bewilderment at his friend's refusal to chat about Thornton was also real, as was his concern for House. Jensen suddenly saw a chance around to the other subject, a possible back way in, working through a few defenses first and giving needed insight here at the same time. Wilson did need reassurance and perspective today on the friendship, even while he also needed to talk about Sandra. "James, I want to try something different today, okay?"

For the first time in their conversation, there was a glimmer of humor in Wilson's chocolate eyes. "Well, it's hardly been a standard session so far, so why not?"

Jensen gave him a friendly grin, letting the warmth of the moment spread. "Variety is good sometimes. Shakes things up and gives us a different perspective. Okay, close your eyes." House would have been suspicious, but Wilson was patiently skeptical, not sure that they weren't wasting time here but willing to humor the psychiatrist. He closed his eyes.

"All right, I want you to imagine that you are Dr. House." Wilson's face tightened up slightly in reaction, obviously feeling this was indeed a challenge. Jensen gave him a moment. "Try to put yourself in his perspective. I'm going to ask you some questions, many of which involve you, but don't answer me as Dr. Wilson. Try to imagine what _he_ would say." Jensen had planned on trying this role-playing exercise today anyway, though not with House. One advantage of it, though, was that it did limit information to what Wilson knew or could work out himself and would help maintain confidentiality. They would actually be talking about Wilson as much as House, just from a different angle. Jensen had a very good idea of why House was reluctant to discuss Thornton with Wilson above all, based on Wilson's own report to Cuddy in front of the psychiatrist of a comment two months ago, but Wilson didn't see that yet through House's eyes.

"You are Dr. House," Jensen stated again. "Go back to the trial of Patrick Chandler two months ago. Imagine having survived that childhood. Imagine getting up to testify about your past in front of the media. Imagine having everything revealed by Patrick. _You_ are up there on the stand. _You _are the main witness for the prosecution, and everybody is watching." It was fascinating to watch Wilson's expression shift as Jensen spoke. He had started out a bit skeptical, but now, he was truly beginning to think about what it might feel like to have that background and to have to answer questions on it in open court. He looked much more sympathetic and impressed than he had a minute ago. "On the stand, you suddenly spot your biological father in the courtroom. You haven't seen him in decades. What is your reaction when you see him?"

"I'm mad at him," Wilson answered. Easy enough to supply House's answer there; he had never in their whole long friendship seen the fury in his friend's eyes that he had at that moment in court.

"Why are you mad at him?" Jensen asked.

Wilson considered it. "I wondered if the defense attorney or my mother planted him." Cuddy had reported both of those as negatives later that night in her microsummary of the conversation with Thornton, so they had clearly been in the picture at first as guesses.

"So once you learned that wasn't true, were you less angry?"

The oncologist remembered House on his return home that night, stating, "Since he's never _been_ in my life, it would be hard to let him _back_ in." He remembered the next day, Thornton's absence from the main room. House's eyes had been blue daggers when they had bumped into each other in the crowd in the lobby after his testimony was finally over. "No," he said. "I'm still furious at him."

"Why?" the psychiatrist persisted.

"He was never there." House had said that, after all. "He never wanted a part of my life, and then he abruptly turned up decades later acting like he could walk right in." There was actually anger entering Wilson's voice now, anger on his friend's behalf as he put himself in House's shoes. Abruptly, he put pieces together that he hadn't before. "He could have stopped it - maybe. When House. . . when _I_ was a child, he might have been able to get me out of there. Which my mother should have done anyway, but she was obviously no help." That part wasn't new; Wilson had been furious himself at Blythe from the moment he found out about House. But he'd never extended that to Thornton somehow, as the man had been absent. His anger had been almost a mirror image of House's, each throwing it all onto a different party. "Maybe he could have helped me if he'd tried."

Jensen smiled slightly, hearing it suddenly becoming real to the oncologist. Maybe he should have tried role-playing earlier. They'd spend a few minutes on House not in general but just with this bit as it related to Wilson, then head for Sandra. "So you are _furious_ at your biological father, like you just said. The next day, you are still on the stand as the trial continues. You're on the stand the whole day, in fact, and you know that cross examination is about to start. It's also a very hard day physically, and the judge is giving you breaks to keep your leg from cramping up. At the end of one of those breaks, when you are just two or three minutes away from returning to the stand, you go into the bathroom at court with your best friend. The subject of your biological father comes up. How did that start?"

"I ran into Lucas at the urinals, and I asked him quickly to do a background check on my father."

"Why?"

"To get information. I needed more data on him to help me decide what to do." Again, the Housian answer wasn't hard to find when Wilson looked for it.

"What did Lucas say?"

"He just took the name and address, asked about a time limit, and left. He was professional."

"What did your best friend say then? As nearly verbatim as you can remember."

"He asked if that was my father's name. He hadn't known it before. I said he wasn't my father; he was just the sperm donor."

"What did you _mean_ by that, Dr. House? What were you trying to tell your best friend there?"

Wilson had never thought of that. He debated it for a moment. "I was trying to get him to back off and let him know I didn't want to talk about it right then," he said finally.

"Yes. Good. Of course, you could have simply come out and said in so many words you didn't want to talk about it right then. Do you often do that?"

The oncologist grinned. "No. I usually dodge. It's almost a code at times."

Jensen felt a stab of sympathy for Wilson here. House really _did_ do precisely that. Jensen had been working with him for over two years to try to get him to simply state when he didn't feel like talking about something, and even with Jensen and Cuddy, it was still work. In the stress of the trial, minutes away from the stand, there was no way House would have plugged that tactic in. He could have definitely been clearer, even though his friend, with years of experience, should have been more attuned and also should have realized the horrible timing right then in court. Wilson did, as he'd said, know how House tended to react. "So did your friend drop the subject?"

"No. He said. . ." Wilson abruptly cringed, for the first time hearing it through other ears.

"What exactly did he say?" Jensen's voice was sympathetic, not judgmental, but still persistent.

"He said, 'You could just talk to him. That's how most people get to know each other.'" Wilson shook his head suddenly and opened his eyes. "I did _not_ mean it like that. I mean. . . I could have phrased that a lot better."

"Yes, you could. He could have been clearer, too, in asking you to drop the subject right then. But do you see now the sort of coded stop sign that you missed?" Wilson nodded. "And do you think it's fair to say that three minutes before he returned to the stand was not the best time anyway to pursue that subject of his father, knowing it was a very charged one?"

"Yes. I shouldn't have said anything right then."

"Okay, back to this exercise. You're doing extremely well at this, James. Close your eyes again. Once again, you _are_ Dr. House. How did your friend's statement make you feel?"

"Like . . . like he was belittling the situation. Like people had to deal with stuff like this every day and it was a routine thing I ought to handle like all of them did."

"Good. So did your friend apologize for the way he pushed you on that subject and the way he belittled it?"

"No. Not until just this week."

"So quite a delay. After that encounter in the bathroom, were you eager to discuss your biological father with your best friend?"

"No." Wilson flinched.

"Did you ever discuss it with him in between the trial two months ago and this week?"

"Once. He asked me once how things were going."

"What exactly did he say to you, if you can remember it?"

Wilson tried to remember. "He asked once if I'd ever started talking to Thornton yet."

"He actually said yet?" Wilson was getting the point, and Jensen felt bad for pushing on it, but the new perspective was doing a world of good here, too. The practice would also be good in a few minutes with Sandra.

"Yes. And yes, before you ask, it probably made me feel like he was still belittling the situation and thought anybody else could handle it better than I was."

"What did you do then?"

"I said we were emailing, and then I walked away and ended the conversation."

"Okay, down to this week. Your best friend asked you to go to lunch. Were you already suspicious that there was a special purpose?"

No question about that one. "Yes. He wanted to go out to a restaurant and not the hospital cafeteria. He does that to talk privately where the hospital employees aren't around."

"How did your friend bring up the subject of Thornton? Again, exact words, as near as you remember them."

"He asked if I was still talking to my father, then corrected it to emailing, then asked if I'd moved on to talking by now." Wilson flinched again, hearing the tone of that through different ears.

"Do you think his using by now implied that you should have moved on to talking and that other people would have done it better?"

"Yes. He didn't mean it that way, though."

"I'm sure you realized the slight was unintentional and was just habit. A _bad_ habit, but it was just habit. How did you respond to his question?"

"I said that I don't have a father."

Jensen leaned forward a little bit. There it was, the no-trespassing sign he was sure had been there. And yes, House could have been more clear, again, but Wilson also could have been more perceptive based on years of experience. "What did you mean by that, Dr. House?"

Wilson sighed. "I wanted him to drop the subject. I didn't come out and say that, though."

"No, you didn't. And agreed that you could have been clearer. Does he pick up on shielded statements like that in general through the years, though?"

"Lots of times he does. We really do know each other."

"Yes, you do." The fact that Wilson had unerringly landed on the main topic on House's mind once he wondered what might be bothering his friend was testimony to how well they knew each other. "Did he pick up on your request to leave it alone Monday?"

"No."

"What did he say?"

"He just said, 'You know who I mean.' He sounded impatient about it. And then he asked if we were making any progress."

"What did you do then?"

"Slammed the brakes on, turned the car around, and snapped at him. I told him to go judge somewhere else."

"What did he say to that?"

"He denied judging. I reminded him of the first topic in the court bathroom and said that sounded pretty judgmental to me. Then he apologized for that and said he didn't realize it was still bothering me."

Jensen fought back a sigh. They were good friends, undeniably bonded, but they could be so entirely on two different tracks of subtext sometimes. "How did that statement make you feel? Did it sound like a sincere apology?"

Wilson's shoulders drooped. "No. It sounded like he was saying again that he didn't think the whole thing with my biological father was that big a deal and that it shouldn't still be bothering me." He opened his eyes. "I never quite thought of it that way."

"I know, and I'm sorry for putting you through that. But James, can you see why he's not terribly eager to discuss his feelings on Thornton with you?"

"Yes. Damn it, he needs to work through this with somebody, though. Does he at least talk about it with you and dig into things? Wait, I know. You can't answer that."

Jensen gave him a sad smile but didn't answer the question, as predicted. "I'll give you some advice you might be able to use here. Talk to Dr. Cuddy. Ask her how _she_ deals with the topic. And I think that a sincere, not belittling in any interpretation apology with your friend for how you have treated that whole subject would be appreciated. But apologize and leave it there. Whether he wants to talk then or not talk or whatever he chooses, leave it up to him. Your friendship is still there. He hasn't shut you out the last few months on everything, has he?"

"No. We talk about other things, do guy's nights now and then, talk about the kids. He does want to talk about something, though. He specifically asked for a guy's night out tomorrow. That's what I wanted your advice on first; I thought it was a good chance to talk about Thornton and him cheating because he was upset over that. If he cheated." For the first time, there was doubt in his tone.

Jensen came to attention. "He _specifically_ asked for a night tomorrow? Acting like there was special need for one?"

"Yes. He even said we need to talk."

"James, I take it you haven't actually asked him this week outright if he cheated on Dr. Cuddy?"

Wilson squirmed. "No. I haven't mentioned that to anybody; I've just been trying to get him to admit it to me. I didn't want to have to say I'd been eavesdropping."

"So you've been dancing all around the subject of something bothering him without saying what you really meant, while you're chewing on the real topic privately mentally."

"Yes, but he's one to talk. He does the same thing lots of times."

"This isn't a competition of faults, James. I have no doubt that you both have plenty of them, but I was heading somewhere important. Has Dr. House asked you at any point since Monday if you have cheated again on Sandra?"

Wilson straightened up so quickly that he hurt his back doing it. "Damn it, is _anybody_ ever going to let me forget that? It's been a _year_."

Jensen studied him. "Was that a yes or a no? Referring to his asking you, I mean."

"_Yes_, he asked me."

The psychiatrist leaned forward. "Did you tell him you haven't, or did you just get defensive and offended like you did right now?"

"I told him . . . well, I guess I didn't tell him I hadn't. But he should know that."

"James, don't take this the wrong way, but within thirty seconds of you walking into this office today, _I_ thought that the subject of cheating in some way was on your mind."

"I HAVEN"T," Wilson snapped.

"I believe you. But it _has_ been on your mind this week, in a general sense, as you chewed over your misunderstandings about Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy. Hasn't it?"

"Yes, but in . . . in the abstract. Not that I personally was going to. I haven't cheated again. So you're saying that I have a thought bubble over my head or something saying, 'I'm thinking about the subject of cheating?'"

"I'm just saying that that specific brand of tension in you is noticeable and is specific, and Dr. House and I both have apparently picked up on it. And we both gave you a chance to explain why the subject in general is on your mind, although you didn't take advantage of it with him, apparently. I imagine that _that's _what he wants to discuss tomorrow, asking more why you've been thinking about the topic, especially since you didn't outright deny it to him. But that raises the question of whether anyone else has noticed your tension and wondered the same thing."

Wilson was rapidly getting defensive again. "You and House don't count. You two see rabbits instead of hats, even when there aren't any rabbits around."

"Anybody else then? What about Sandra?"

Wilson tightened up. "No. She hasn't noticed anything." The consequences if _Sandra_ thought he had cheating on his mind were too large to contemplate.

Jensen switched tactics, planning to work back around to that. It was a critical point, but Wilson was getting jammed up. Better to approach it from another angle. "How are things going with Sandra? You mentioned last week considering talking to her about the nighttimes, trading off with Daniel, and that that wasn't working well."

"It isn't. I don't think she's getting much more sleep than I am. I haven't brought it up this last week, never found a time when we weren't exhausted or I didn't have a patient dying or something."

Or you chickened out, Jensen filled in. "James, I said that it had to be her timetable on the sex, but I didn't say you shouldn't talk about your relationship with her in other ways." He had made a similar statement in many different forms the last several sessions. "I think, actually, that the timing on the issue of sex is far more in your hands than you believe it is."

Wilson sighed again. "Again, we haven't had a time lately when we weren't both beat."

"How is Daniel doing?"

A father's pride broke through the worry there. "He's doing great. Growing steadily now, starting to look around more. It's funny when we take him over to House's. Rachel tries to teach him how to do things like run, and Abby tries to mentally dissect him, I think, but both of them are fascinated at somebody smaller than they are. Temporarily smaller than they are." Wilson smiled.

"That's wonderful. No more physical problems?"

"No. You'd never know anything was wrong."

"And with Sandra, how are things going?"

Worry flooded back in like a wave. "I'm not sure. I'm trying so hard, but . . ." He trailed off into silence.

"Has she noticed how hard you are trying?"

"Yes. She says so at times, like with the drinking or Daniel. But I just . . . what if I do or say the wrong thing here? I mean, it's been 11 months. I wish I knew how much longer."

"Is that what you were thinking of Monday when you decided to distract yourself by eavesdropping?" Wilson's expression answered for him. And there they were again, at the point where they usually ended up the last several sessions, him wanting the relationship to progress but afraid to truly let go. "James, let's try what we were doing a while ago, only this time, I want you to be Sandra, okay? Close your eyes again." Wilson closed them, but he had also tensed up even more.

"You are Sandra," Jensen reminded him. "Think about her as you've gotten to know her, as you've watched her over time. At work, at home, with Daniel, with you. How she reacts, how she feels, how she addresses things." Jensen waited until Wilson's expression softened. "Okay, Sandra, what is it you want in this relationship?"

Answering that question was easy; she had said so herself. It was surrendering the final walls that was hard. "Total commitment."

"Go back eleven months ago. Why did you stop the sex?"

"It got in the way. He used it as a distraction to avoid getting to know each other or talking."

"Did you do it to get even with him for cheating?"

Wilson considered. "No," he said definitely after a minute. "I . . . I don't play games like that like his ex-wives did."

"So you don't bring the cheating up repeatedly?"

"No. I made it clear at first that that point is nonnegotiable, though. He knows I haven't changed my mind there; there's no need to keep repeating it."

"Although you obviously _are_ willing to work past it the once."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I . . . I wanted to give him a chance. Just one, but it's a chance. And I also think that I might have pushed into things too quickly, too, and not taken time to get to know each other. Not that I cheated, but I contributed to the rushing."

"You told him that back 11 months ago?"

"Yes."

"So you wanted to get to know each other? How did that go over the last 11 months?"

Wilson sighed. "I was trying. We were both trying. We dated, we talked. But we were worried about the baby, too, in case he had HSV2."

"How did you react to that fear, Sandra?"

"I tried to share it."

"How did _he_ react to it?"

"He . . ." Wilson hesitated.

"Do you think part of him was holding back?"

"He . . . yes. He was going to leave me if the baby had HSV2." Wilson shook his head, and something glistened at the corner of his closed eyes. "That whole pregnancy, it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. He tried talking, and he tried getting to know each other, but the whole time, he was thinking that none of it mattered if the baby wasn't healthy, because there wouldn't be a chance for him then."

"Did you discuss your fears about the baby with him, Sandra?"

"I tried to."

"Did _he_ discuss his fears about the baby with you?"

Again, Wilson paused. "No. He would listen to mine, but he never wanted to talk about how he felt about it. Because . . . I knew. He offered at first to leave. I knew he still was going to if Daniel got the disease, even though I hoped not. He couldn't have faced that." Anger flared up in Wilson's voice suddenly. "He was too much of a _coward_ to face that, even though it was his doing."

"Did you ever call him a coward?"

"Not in those words."

"In what words?"

"When he first offered to leave, right after we found out, I told him that would be him taking the easy way out and that he had no right to do it."

"After that conversation, did you ever bring it up again?"

"I told him several times that we were in this together, no matter what. But I . . . I guess I was afraid to push it beyond that."

"Did he ever tell you that you were in this together, no matter what?"

"No. He talked about everything being all right. He never wanted to talk about what if it wasn't. He'd change the subject."

"So for 8 of these 11 months, you were both scared, worried about your son, and he still had an escape plan constantly in mind if the worst happened?"

Wilson let out a deep breath. "Yes," he said softly.

"Do you think, if we were keeping track of things on a clock, that those 8 months would count on the total for working on total commitment?" Jensen asked.

"It wasn't a waste. We learned a lot about each other. But yes, it was all conditional, especially with him, so I guess . . . probably not."

"Good job," Jensen said softly. "I know this is hard for you. Okay, Sandra, three months ago, Daniel was born, and James left, but then he came back. How did that make you feel?"

"Devastated that he left. But he did come back, even before he knew it was okay. He decided to face things. That . . . that helped once I thought about it."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Yes."

"What happened then, Sandra?"

"I. . . I told him that I believed he was really making progress. But for the sake of Daniel, I just needed a little more time to watch him, because he couldn't _ever_ decide to leave again. Not with Daniel. It's different now than when it was just me. You can't just decide to walk out on a child."

"But you did tell him you thought he was making progress?"

"Yes."

"Did you put a time limit on how much longer?"

"No."

Jensen leaned forward. "So how do you think you'll know, Sandra?"

Wilson took nearly a minute thinking about that one. "He . . . he would let me in all the way."

"So he still hasn't let you in all the way?"

"No."

"Just to clarify, we aren't talking about the sex there, are we?"

"No. He doesn't want to do the wrong thing, so he does nothing sometimes."

"What is the wrong thing, Sandra?"

"Cheating again."

"Has there _ever_ been anything else that was even implied that it would be a line he couldn't cross?"

"No. I'm . . . I've tried to work through everything else with him. But what if there's a line we're not aware of yet?"

"Who is it who usually initiates conversations about your relationship?"

"I do. Pretty much always."

"How do you think he's feeling right now, Sandra?"

"He's . . ." Wilson hesitated again.

"How are _you_ feeling right now, Sandra?" Jensen asked.

The shoulders sank. "Tired." He didn't qualify whether physically or emotionally, and Jensen understood that both applied.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Do you want this relationship?"

A faint grin appeared. "If I don't, I've wasted a lot of time on it. Yes, I want it, for Daniel."

"Just for Daniel?"

"No. I want it."

"Have you told him that?"

"Yes."

"Does _he_ want this relationship, Sandra? Do you think he does?"

"I . . . hope so."

Jensen could tell Wilson was nearing the limit. He switched tactics again, hitting the one critical point he thought _must_ be faced, running late or not. "Do you know something is bothering him this week?"

Wilson tightened up again there, but he answered after a moment. "Yes. I asked him Monday night what had happened that day that worried him so much."

"What did he say?"

"He said nothing. Just a bad day at work." Wilson sighed. "He lied to me." Abruptly, his eyes flew open. "Oh my God. You think she really . . .?"

"Yes," Jensen replied. "Not necessarily that she thinks you cheated, but I think she knows the topic of cheating is on your mind, as Dr. House noticed, as I noticed. She gave you a chance to open up, and you didn't take it. Has she asked again?"

"She asked about the patients last night when I got home late. She knew I had two terminal patients. She met me at lunch today and asked me to please talk to you. I thought she meant about the patients." Wilson shook his head as if to clear it. "If she really thinks I cheated again, that's it. She meant that. Never again."

"James, I think she isn't sure _what_ exactly is going on, just knows the general subject on your mind, and she's giving you the benefit of the doubt by postponing asking you outright until after this session. I think that when you get home tonight, if you don't talk to her yourself, she will nail you down a lot more directly than she did Monday. Whether you bring it up or not, I think you _will_ be talking about this tonight, and I think that dodging out and lying to her would be a horrible mistake. Tell her about the conversation you overheard, and that you misinterpreted it. _Talk_ to her. Explain to her how the subject came up. Actually, if I were you, I'd take five minutes at least - it wouldn't take more - to talk to Dr. House first, because she isn't going to believe he cheated anymore than I do, and if you don't have the answer there when you talk to her, she will ask Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy herself what's going on. You will look better to her already knowing the full details on your mistake than still persisting in it."

Wilson fidgeted with his tie. "So you're saying I have no choice on talking about this with her tonight."

"You actually do - but it would be an extremely bad one. Tell her you made a mistake, and apologize for lying to her Monday. Whatever else you tell her is up to you, but at the minimum, you need to explain why cheating has been on your mind in general this week. Again, I think if you don't bring it up, she will. It will go better if you take the first step."

"She ought to trust me," Wilson protested. "It's been a year."

Jensen sighed himself. "James, let me tell you something that happened Friday. I was going home from the office, leaving early for Cathy's birthday party. Since Dr. House was coming along, I called Melissa to tell her that. So I called her at a point when she expected me home any minute for an important family activity. Guess what her initial thought was?"

Wilson gave him a sympathetic smile. "Not hard to guess given your history."

"I knew it the second I heard her greeting on the phone. At that moment, James, I had two choices. I could get all indignant and defensive, say that it's been a year and a half since we remarried - which, by the way, isn't that long a time in the grand scheme of things - say that she ought to trust me by now, I had proved how much I was trying, were we ever going to get past this, that I didn't deserve her suspicions, that I was perfectly innocent, she was misjudging me, etc. You get the idea. Or I could take five seconds, reassure her, and it was over. Guess which one was the better move for our relationship."

"It was over?" Wilson asked, sounding impressed.

Jensen nodded. "Five seconds, and it was over. No big deal, small stumble on the road, and we move on together. It will take longer with Sandra tonight, because we weren't starting out behind, but it won't take as long as you're afraid it will. It _isn't_ unforgiveness, James. Unforgiveness would be constantly rubbing your nose in the past, bringing it back up as an arrow in every argument. But when you set up circumstances that replicate the past, even if accidentally - Melissa herself called it a flashback, and that's accurate enough. In that moment, the reassurance is needed. And yes, as years and years go on, it will get better. But reassurance is far better than defensiveness. And really, if somebody is in a flashback, shaking them and shouting, 'You ought to know by now the past is over, damn it, and that this is different!' isn't likely to help the situation much. It only prolongs it. Sandra will be _reassured_ that you just made a mistake in eavesdropping, James, and she _will_ believe you if you tell her openly. But lying to her or defending yourself is putting nails in the coffin. She wants you to explain it innocently to her, but she isn't going to let the clock keep ticking on a lie, either. Please, James, if you have ever listened to anything I've said, go home and take the initiative yourself to clear this up with her. You will look so much better by speaking first on this."

Wilson twisted his tie back and forth, then looked up. "You're _sure_ it's a misunderstanding with House?"

"I'll bet you a year's free sessions on that," Jensen said. "Against no return paid to me if you're wrong. I'm that positive. Somehow, and I'll admit I have no idea how, they were just playing. But ask him yourself, on the way to talking to Sandra. _Please_, James. Talk to her. If you want this relationship, go home and talk to her."

Wilson looked at his watch, and then slowly stood up. "We're late. You think she'll really believe me?"

"Yes. If you are completely honest, she will believe you. _Communication_ is the key, James. That's the key to all of it."

Wilson looked at him for a moment, then straightened up. "If you're wrong, I'm collecting on that year of free sessions," he said as he headed for the door.

Jensen sat alone at his desk, letting his tension out slowly. He felt like he'd been running a race, but the pure satisfaction of being a psychiatrist is that sometimes, you got to see a breakthrough. He had hopes that he had just seen one. He sat there for another minute, just breathing, then pulled out his cell phone to call Melissa and tell her that he was running a little late leaving after a crisis session and might get hung up in the traffic more than usual going home. He could hear both Cathy and Mozart in the background, and he was smiling as he stood up from the desk. Five seconds, and it was over - provided it was sincere. It had taken him, too, a while to learn that deceptively simple lesson. Wishing Wilson luck tonight, he left the office.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Short update tonight in celebration of a not-too-stressful-for-a-Sunday (it's weekly visit-Mom day, when I often feel like I was hit by a truck by the time I get home. God bless the workers in all mental institutions. I could never face that place every single day for hours on end). Thanks for reading, everybody. Next chapter is Wilson and Sandra, then we'll get back to House and Thursday's assorted events after that. House does have his own session with Jensen Friday, and it won't be any easier on either him or Jensen than Wilson's was. Neat observation, though, by clp66 on different methods and that the role playing probably wouldn't work as well for House. Jensen's variety of approach is one of the things I love about him.

(H/C)

They had been having a quiet family night at home, and Cuddy had just announced bedtime (to Rachel's strenuous protests) when the doorbell rang. Cuddy was busy corralling a fugitive Rachel, so House limped over to open it.

It was Wilson. "Can I . . ."

Rachel spotted him and interrupted, dodging Cuddy and galloping up. "Wilson! Is it hell day?"

He looked down at her blankly. "What?"

"She asked you if it's hell day," House repeated. Cuddy sighed. "So is it? Yes, no, hung jury?"

"Um, the jury isn't back yet," the oncologist said.

That answer flew over almost 3-year-old ears, and Rachel tugged at his leg. "Hell day?" she insisted.

Cuddy came over. "Rachel, don't go around asking everybody that, okay?"

Wilson picked her up before her mother could get there. "I don't know yet, Rachel. The day's not over." Cuddy took her first good look at him, surprised and then obviously analytical, and Wilson realized with a jolt that House hadn't said anything to her. She didn't already have a framework to fit this visit into and was trying to find one after looking at his face. Whatever his friend's suspicions, he had so far kept them to himself.

Rachel poked him in the shoulder. "Want to fix hell day?"

He couldn't resist pursuing that, wondering what a toddler's prescription would be. "Okay, Rachel, tell me how to fix hell day. Please."

"Pizza!" She wiggled her way down and pranced off, returning with the phone.

Cuddy captured the instrument. "No, BED."

"NO!" She shook her head vigorously. "Not polite."

House snickered. "She's got a point, Lisa. Leaving the room just as company gets here isn't polite."

"Too bad. He'll forgive us." Cuddy picked up Rachel. "Come on, Abby. Come in, Wilson, but it will take us a minute to get them down."

Abby diverted to trot over to the door instead of immediately following her mother. "Hi," she said, looking up at Wilson.

He picked her up for a hug, suddenly picturing the day that Daniel would be able to greet him with more than a smile. "Hi, Abby." He set her back down carefully. "Better go on with your mother, okay? It was House I wanted to see, anyway, and it won't take long. Can we talk for a minute? Alone?"

House tilted his head, the wheels visibly spinning. "Sure. Come on in. Let me go say goodnight to them, then we'll shut the nursery door, and Cuddy can get them to sleep."

Wilson flinched, knowing that he had just made that process far more difficult. Both girls knew him well from visits, and to Rachel especially, he spelled play time. He wandered over to the window and was staring at his own reflection in it when House returned. "They can't hear us, not unless we get into a full battle. So what's going on?" House asked, sitting down on the couch.

Wilson sat on the couch facing him, studying his friend. "This might sound crazy - at least, I _hope_ it sounds crazy - but . . ." He faltered to a halt. Just ask him outright, Jensen had said. Easy for Jensen to say.

At that moment, Belle jumped up beside House and took a minute to sniff him over experimentally before entering his lap, satisfied. House scratched her ears. "I'm _innocent_," he said softly. "At least today." He looked back at Wilson. "Want to start over? That time didn't make it." There was a harsh sympathy underneath his tone that the words didn't reflect.

"You said you're innocent today," Wilson repeated, picking up on the comment to Belle. "What about this last weekend?"

House looked startled, one of the few times Wilson could remember catching him off guard. "How do you know what happened with Belle this last weekend?"

"I was . . . wait a minute. What happened with _Belle_? Nothing happened with Cuddy?"

"Plenty's happening with Cuddy, but all of it good. Most of it, anyway," he edited, remembering her insistence that he needed to have a therapy session regarding chocolate dream cake. "Why did . . ." The puzzle pieces abruptly clicked. "You overheard us talking about Belle, didn't you? But the only time we've discussed that anywhere near you, we were alone on the balcony. You were with a patient in your office. I looked first. So did she."

Wilson was floundering. "Belle. You were talking about _Belle_?" The white cat looked up from licking her shoulder and gave him a classic _that's my name, and what exactly is your problem_ feline stare.

"You thought I was talking about _Cuddy_? And _that's_ why the subject of cheating has been bothering you this week?" Wilson heard the relief buried under his voice, and the knot of tension over their friendship eased a little. House truly had been worried about him, even if he had misunderstood what was on Wilson's mind.

"Jensen said you probably knew that I was thinking about it, in general, I mean." Wilson shook his head. "I'm innocent, too. I swear, I haven't done anything, other than eavesdropping, that is. That whole conversation was about a _cat_?"

House grinned and scratched her ears. "I went to Cathy's birthday party last Friday after my session, had a present to give her. Jensen and Melissa gave her a Siamese kitten, and the demanding little tyrant insisted that somebody hold him at all times through the afternoon. Otherwise, he'd yowl like his tail was stuck in a blender. So I had several spells of kitten holding through the afternoon when the others were busy playing instruments or such, and when I got home, Belle was furious. Took one sniff and then wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the evening, and ever since then, I have to pass inspection first, like you just saw. Cuddy said that I had cheated on her, and yes, we've joked about it a few times since. But only when we thought we were alone."

Wilson sighed. "A cat. It was all about a cat. Wait a minute; it did look like Cuddy was lecturing you on something at first Monday before I opened the door and started listening. She had her annoyed administrator look."

"She was trying to talk me into taking Castleton's case."

"Castleton. . . you mean Castleton Enterprises? _That_ Castleton?"

"Bucks, Jr., in person. I didn't want to, she was pulling the potential donor and status card, and yes, we argued about it a little. I had just agreed to the case, and the topic of Belle came up related to payment for taking it, which was a night with the two of us alone. Meaning me and Cuddy, of course, not me and Belle, but Belle's opinion was speculated on. I think Cuddy was going along with joking a little to try to get me in a better mood before I started work on the case. But again, we thought we were _alone_. We had both checked for you when we first went out there."

Wilson shook his head. "I sneaked up on you. I was trying to distract myself, and . . . I wish I'd just asked you Monday. What had happened yesterday when Cuddy said she was still irritated at you?"

"Turns out that Bucks, Jr., isn't actually Bucks, Jr., because Mama Bucks counted the contents of another wallet back years ago."

Wilson suddenly laughed, picturing the scene. "And you, of course, worked that out and announced it to him in front of hospital staff."

"The fact that hospital staff heard was solely due to Mama Bucks going all offended and denying everything. She wasn't shocked; she jumped straight to indignant while everybody else was shocked. That confirmed it for me. But it was hardly my fault if she threw her high-society-insulted fit with the door open. It's all over the grapevine; I figured you'd heard already."

"So it was all about a cat . . . and a potential donor." Wilson let out a deep breath. "Do you realize how _worried_ I've been over you?"

"Two sides to that coin, Wilson. And I at least asked you directly, not that I got a direct answer. You do offended indignation well, by the way. You should give Mama Bucks some lessons; she's too stiff and afraid to let herself completely go with it." House paused for a moment. "Have you talked to Sandra yet?"

"Not yet. Heading there, but Jensen advised me to get the story straight with you first, because he said she wouldn't believe you'd cheated any more than he did." Wilson stood up again, pacing a circuit of the couch. "You think she wondered this week?"

"Yes," House stated unequivocally.

"You know, you might have said so."

"I was going to point that out to you tomorrow night along with finding out exactly what was going on, although I hoped you'd talk to Jensen first. I knew he'd do it better than I could. Look at it this way, Wilson; you really are innocent. Just tell her you thought it was me cheating instead, but you only heard half of that conversation and didn't ask for more details because you'd been eavesdropping. That's a _lot_ better than if you'd been cheating or even considering cheating yourself." Wilson didn't look terribly reassured. "Want some backup?"

The oncologist skidded to a startled halt in his couch orbit. "You'd go talk to her with me?"

"I could give her the story with Belle and confirm that I was joking about it with Cuddy Monday out on the balcony. Kind of corroborating evidence, if you think it would help. I think she'll believe you anyway, but if you want another witness . . ." House didn't really want to go, and Wilson could tell, but the offer untied another loop of the knot inside him.

"No, I'd probably better talk to her alone. If I need supporting testimony, I'll have her call you, okay?" Wilson looked down at the cat. "Do you have _any_ idea how much trouble you've caused me this week?" Belle met his look evenly and gave a jaw-splitting yawn. "Wish me luck, House."

"Good luck," House replied. "See you tomorrow night."

"So guys' night out is still on?"

"Why not?"

They hadn't even approached the subject of Thornton, but Wilson knew he was on a timetable tonight. He'd called Sandra and told her he needed to talk to House for just a few minutes on his way home, but she would be waiting, and he might as well get this over with. "If I'm still alive tomorrow night, we're on." He walked toward the door, shaking his head. "The cat. You cheated on the _cat_. Why on earth would I ever expect you to do anything like other people do?" There was affection underneath the tone, though. "Night, House."

"Night, Wilson." Wilson left, and House sat there studying Belle and thinking through the week. Hopefully, Wilson wouldn't just stop at explaining the cheating misunderstandings. He needed to talk to Sandra. "You might have actually accomplished some good this week by the end," he said to Belle. She purred and kneaded his leg gently with her paws for a few moments. "Get up, cat." Cuddy would be fighting the battle of the girls in the nursery, and his return mid way wouldn't help much, but he had another project he'd been meaning to get to. He wanted to transfer the concert CD to both his laptop and then his IPod.

He fetched the laptop from his backpack and the CD and picture from the desk. Studying his grandfather again, he logged on and started to transfer files. As they copied over, he checked email and was surprised to see one from Thornton there timestamped only 30 minutes ago. He hadn't ever replied to this morning's email, and his stomach tightened up as he saw the name. They were off schedule again, too; this must be some specific communication besides the rest of the music details promised for Friday. Would the other man be mad at having his request for information simply ignored? What did House care if he got mad anyway? He looked at the email for over a minute, then finally opened it with an annoyed click, though he wasn't sure if the annoyance was at his father or at himself.

_Good night, Greg. Dream of music. _

_Thomas_

House sighed. "You really think it's that simple?" he demanded of the screen. "Just say so, and _poof_, I'm all tucked in safe and sound for a good night's sleep? I only wish it worked like that. And I _told_ you not to call me Greg." Belle put a sympathetic paw on his arm, and he looked down at her golden eyes, watching him with uncomfortable focus. "Oh, stop it. He isn't bothering me." To prove it, House closed down email without taking the time to reply. Thornton wasn't worth the protest. The man had to call him something eventually, after all. Hey, you, had its limits, and the emails more and more had almost visible gaps where the name should go.

He had just finished copying the new files on the laptop back over to his IPod when he heard Cuddy's steps coming down the hall. "Is Wilson okay?" she asked.

"Hopefully. As he said, the jury's still out on hell day, but I think he's got a good shot at the verdict. Come here. I want you to hear something."

She sat down next to him, the flash of her eyes letting him know that she was aware of the effort at distraction and was choosing to allow it. She'd leave the Wilson story alone, for the moment, anyway. "What?" She noted the picture on the coffee table and picked it up again. "This really is amazing. What did you think of Jensen's shot?"

"It was an accident. He sneaked up on me." She grinned. "As for the comparison, you can definitely tell we're related. I look a lot older, though."

She ran a hand along his back. "You _are_ older than he was, Greg. But you know what? You look better physically than you did before we got together."

"You're saying you're good for me, is that it?"

She kissed him in reply. "I'm saying you have a lot of life left in you, and the girls and I are looking forward to enjoying it for years to come. What did you want me to hear?"

He cued up the new music files, picking Flight of the Bumblebee, the shortest of them. "This is my grandfather playing."

She tried to listen to the music as he did, even though she knew she never could. He would always interpret it on far more levels than she was capable of. "He's really good," she said as the piece finished. "He was, I mean."

"Better have been if he expected people to pay to hear him."

She smiled. "He sounds . . . _alive_, somehow. I mean, some classical pianists I've heard sound boring. He doesn't sound like he was ever boring, even if he was playing something slower."

"No, he doesn't." Her choice of words reminded him of Wilson, and he wished his friend luck again mentally. Wilson was probably in the middle of it now.

"That is a neat piece. Fast but not just a race. It's got different types of music things in it."

"Different types of music things," he repeated. "Nice review there. Keep your day job, Lisa; I don't think your services as a music critic are salable quite yet."

"I have no intention of quitting my day job. I need to keep an eye on you." She sighed, her mind heading back to her day job. "Do you think Castleton will even be speaking to you still by tomorrow night?"

"Oh, _he'll_ still be speaking to me. His mother might cut me off, but the good news for the hospital is that rightly or wrongly, _he_ is the one who controls the lion's share of all those megabucks. So if we have to have one of them cut us out of their list, she's the one we want to piss off."

"How reassuring." She saw him start to exit the laptop music program. "I think a hot soak would feel good tonight, Greg. I've just fought the battle of bedtime."

"Sounds good." If Wilson hadn't called him by now, he probably didn't need to, although House would take his cell phone with him on the off chance. "Go get it started." She stood up. "That was Thornton's favorite piece," he said suddenly. "He said he used to stand by the piano when he was a kid and watch his father play it."

Cuddy waited for a moment. No further conversation was forthcoming, and she brushed his shoulder lightly with her fingers, then headed for the bathroom.

House, left on the couch alone, flipped back over to email. He reread Thornton's brief message, then shut the computer down. He wished it _were_ that easy.


	21. Chapter 21

Wilson was caught up in an odd mixture of reassurance, worry, and disbelief as he drove home. He was reassured that House hadn't in fact faltered that badly, that the best working example of a relationship Wilson had close to him hadn't gone crashing off the rails as he had feared. It was also reassuring that Jensen's predictions so far were correct, that this would be simple to sort out with House and only require a brief stop and that asking directly was the key to fixing what was only a misunderstanding. That gave Wilson some hope for the coming conversation with Sandra, which the psychiatrist had said would be harder, but he'd also predicted that Sandra would believe him. The worry still gnawed at Wilson, but the reassurance was appreciated. So far, this wasn't quite hell day yet.

Then there was the amazed disbelief. The idea that two people could actually _joke_ about cheating, that their security and confidence in each other's fidelity was that unshakable. Not only that, but Jensen also had never faltered in his opinion even while admitting that he didn't know the full explanation. He had even bet a year's worth of sessions, risking thousands of dollars loss against no possible financial return to himself if he won, just to try to push Wilson into talking openly to House. To believe that strongly in a relationship, and no, it wasn't a perfect relationship by any means.

Hell, they were only three months out themselves from their own major crisis with Cuddy flipping into a micromanaging bitch in response to her encounter with the gunman and pushing House to the limit before she accepted her own need for therapy. Wilson and Sandra had never quite gotten the full story on that showdown, he was sure, but House had told them he had talked to Cuddy and finally gotten her to see her need for therapy. Wilson and Sandra had been ready to stage an intervention the next day to try to help their friends, so House had had to convince them the need wasn't there any longer. Wilson knew that Cuddy had been seeing a psychiatrist herself since. He even had worked out when; the fact that she always left early on Fridays now was glaringly obvious compared to her previous full-value-from-every-minute work days. She and House were apparently having parallel sessions on Friday afternoons with their respective shrinks.

With all that recent history where their relationship had been strained as Wilson had never seen it before, they remained rock solid enough that they could _joke_ about the subject of cheating together.

He hoped that his family could have that kind of confidence in him someday.

Sandra. He hadn't realized fully until Jensen's office today how much she _had_ been trying to talk about their relationship lately. Every time, he had dodged, afraid to do or say the wrong thing. He had concluded three months ago that leaving was no longer an option, even if he _had_ been responsible for risking his son's life. He had no choice but to come back and face it, not with them at stake. But he was still afraid since that she might leave him if he made some undefined mistake, so rather than holding an escape plan in reserve for the worst case scenario as he had during her pregnancy, he had simply settled on not talking about serious things at all lately. The psychiatrist's words from earlier echoed again.

_"What is the wrong thing, Sandra?"_

_"Cheating again." _

_"Has there ever been anything else that was even implied that it would be a line he couldn't cross?" _

_"No."_

He sighed as he parked the car. Jensen had said she would believe him if he was open and honest, that communication was the key. Abruptly, as he got out, Wilson remembered House offering to come along and give supporting testimony. That thought brought reassurance back into the whirlwind and slowed the revolutions a little.

Sandra was waiting for him, as was a smell from the kitchen that reminded him that he hadn't eaten yet. Nor had she, most likely; she said she had been cooking when he'd called on the edge of Princeton a while ago. Truly studying her tonight, he was struck by how utterly weary she looked. She'd lost a few pounds, too.

"Hi." She met him with a kiss as he came in the door. "Did your conversation with House settle whatever you needed to?" She broke off under his fixed gaze. "What?"

"You look exhausted." He saved himself from saying awful in time.

"I am," she admitted. "Last night was all chopped up with Daniel." She dodged out herself there; he knew now it was more than Daniel wearing her down recently. He was beginning to suspect that the same was true for him.

"House helped, yes, but let's eat first." He saw her shoulders sink slightly and wondered if she had a similar pit in her stomach to his own. But they _did_ need to eat, both of them. Borrowing Jensen's five seconds of reassurance for a test drive, he continued. "We _will_ talk tonight. And I haven't done anything awful, I promise. It's okay." She relaxed some, visibly unknotting a few turns. "We do need to eat, though. You look like you've lost weight; that's what I was noticing just now when I came in. Let's eat first, then talk."

The food still had to be forced down on both sides, and it didn't help that she wasn't the world's greatest cook. He loved that about her, that she didn't mind the reversal of typical roles and appreciated his meals. Still, she had relaxed a lot from when he had opened the door, now more in anticipation than worry, at least that specific worry. Now that the question had been raised by Jensen, Wilson couldn't pretend any longer that she hadn't guessed the subject that had been on his mind this week. She had accepted the brief reassurance, though. Whatever he was about to tell her, it at least wasn't _that_, and knowing that much alone was enough to lower her tension. Maybe, he hoped, they could in fact work through anything else.

She finished eating a little after he did, pushed the plate a few token inches away, then looked at him, waiting, but she did not ask, giving him the opportunity first before forcing the issue. Wilson took a deep breath. "I've been worried this week about something that turns out to be nothing at all. Something I overheard Monday."

"What was it?" she prompted when he paused.

"House and Cuddy were out on the balcony, and I . . . well, all right, I was deliberately eavesdropping on them. I heard half of their conversation, totally out of context. They were talking about him having cheated this last weekend."

Sandra was as startled as Jensen had been initially, then equally resolute. "No."

"I know. I finally asked him tonight straight out. Turns out, they were actually talking about the cat."

She tilted her head, looking adorably confused. "He cheated on their cat?"

"Right. He went to Jensen's daughter's birthday party after his session last Friday. Jensen and his wife gave her a kitten, and House apparently had a few turns of kitten sitting while everything was going on. When he got home, Belle was mad at him." Sandra smiled suddenly as she imagined it, the worry of the week releasing in humor, and Wilson couldn't help joining in after a minute. "Really, it was funny. I saw her myself tonight while I was talking to him. She jumped up, but she sniffed him all over before she got in his lap, like she wanted to make sure of the company he'd been keeping. You should have seen her ears. They were like radar."

Sandra shook her head, but the smile of relief was still there. "So all week, you thought he'd cheated on Cuddy? And you didn't just ask him?"

Wilson's amusement at Belle's inspection faded quickly. "No. I was trying to dance around things and get him to come out and talk to me himself. I didn't want to admit I'd been eavesdropping on them."

"So it was just about a cat." She _did_ believe him, and she _was _relieved, he could tell. But that wasn't everything, and he knew it.

"I lied to you Monday," he admitted. "You tried to find out what was bothering me, but I didn't want you to know I'd been eavesdropping."

"You think direct lying to your partner in a relationship is a better choice than admitting eavesdropping on a conversation?" she challenged, an edge in her voice. She never yelled, but he could always tell when she was getting determined on things. Her chin came up just so.

"No. I'm sorry, Sandra. I . . ." He paused. "I should have told you. I didn't realize you knew what I was thinking about. Even so, I shouldn't have lied to you."

She looked at him for a moment. "I forgive you. But try to remember this next time, okay? I know it's hard for you to talk about things, James, but you have to _try_ sometimes. Lying is never going to improve the situation."

"I know. I'm sorry for worrying you." He was amazed again at how she firmly made her point, then backed down instead of repeating it fifty times to rub his nose in it. Truly, disagreements with her were nothing like with his ex-wives, nor with Amber.

It had never been like this before with anyone else, even if Daniel weren't in the picture. And Daniel _was_ in the picture, unforgettably so, but for herself alone, this relationship at times gave him glimpses of such beautiful if uncharted water. It was that realization even more than Jensen's advice that suddenly made him go on when he could have left it there for tonight with the misunderstanding resolved. "I realized some things today with Jensen. He tried something new, looking at things from somebody else's perspective. I really hadn't quite registered how hard you've been trying to talk about us lately. You always brought it up, and I always dodged."

She waited, listening, letting him have the floor, knowing that he wasn't done yet. "I'm . . . afraid of doing the wrong thing. I've talked about it with Jensen, several times, actually. It goes back to how I define being accepted. Always before in a relationship, they all had some brokenness, some need I needed to fill. Except maybe Amber, and she had a need to make a point to House, which actually I didn't mind helping her with. I kind of enjoyed pitting the two of them against each other in a way. But I'm not used to _talking_ to people. I can lecture them, or try to save them, but I have trouble just _talking_ to them about serious things. You're so well-adjusted compared to the rest of my history, it's unknown territory." He reached out to touch her hand. "But I _am_ trying to work on things. I realized today how much work still needs doing."

Her fingers twitched beneath his. "I know you're trying, James. In some areas, you're making a lot of progress. The drinking, for instance. I am proud of you for that." He knew she was; she had said so several times. "But wanting you to be able to talk to us isn't just about me. You know, several times over the years, Daniel is going to need to talk to his father. There are needs you can meet with him better than anybody else possibly could. But there will be direct conversations, some of them hard ones. You can't just try to avoid them."

He sighed. "I hadn't thought of Daniel in that context. You're right; things will come up with him between father and son. Even more, though, I ought to try harder in that area with you. I'm sorry I haven't lately." He tightened his grip. "But I _won't_ leave again. I promise both of you that. If we can just work through everything else. . ."

"There's only one thing you and I can't work through again." She didn't repeat it. He knew he was on his one second chance with the cheating and knew she still meant it. There was no expiration date for that. "Anything else, James, it's possible for the two of us to work through it as long as we're both trying. You don't have to be afraid."

He leaned over to get a better grip on her hand, but he noticed again suddenly how tired she looked. Emboldened by the success so far at actually trying to communicate tonight, he took the plunge. "About working through things, I've been thinking. This just isn't working out with Daniel with us alternating nights. I worry all the time about what's going on in your room, if everything is alright, and I think you do, too. Neither one of us is getting enough sleep, and it's dragging us down physically." She nodded, accepting that assessment. "So I was wondering if we . . . if we maybe ought to move back into the same bedroom, to be together again, and that way, both of us could be reassured that everything was under control with him."

"Okay," she said simply.

"I don't mean for sex . . . not that I don't _want _sex, but what I mean is -" He slammed to a stop suddenly. "What did you say?"

"Okay," she repeated. "Let's move back together, then."

He stared. "Just like _that_? I just had to _ask_?"

She took a few seconds to think through it in her turn. "It's not quite that simple. It isn't that I had some secret answer I was waiting for you to get while I tried to keep it away from you. I wasn't sure _how_ I'd know, actually. Maybe there were other ways to say it, too. But I think, tonight, it's that I needed to know that you'll _try_ to work things out when it's difficult instead of just dodging. I know that wasn't easy making that suggestion just now. You could have stopped a few minutes ago, and you didn't. I guess I needed to know that Daniel and I are worth pushing out of your comfort zone for. And yes, I know there are two sides to that."

"I already know you're willing to go past your comfort zone." She would have pitched him a year ago if she hadn't. Wilson was still stunned at the simplicity of the answer. Maybe if he'd only said this three months ago (Jensen was right; that first eight months when he'd had the escape plan in the far back corner of his mind if worst came to worst did not count), he could have been sleeping with her. And having sex with her, too. He was startled to realize afresh that it was _both_ that he had missed, not just the physical passion, but the warm presence of each other. "When you said okay, what kind of okay was that? Just to get this clear. Did you mean . . ."

"I meant okay." She smiled at him. "James, do you think I haven't missed it, too? Haven't imagined it? In fact, for me, it's going to get even better. I . . . not to take this the wrong way, but I don't think you were 100% there a year ago, and it was already good. Yes, I've missed it. But it did get in the way of us getting to know each other. We moved too fast."

"I know. And you're right; I wasn't 100% into it. Probably thought I was, but I would have been thinking about the process, techniques, effects, setting up how you should feel and enjoying making you feel that way as a sign of how good I was. It wasn't really making love, just sex. But you're wrong on one thing."

She tilted her head. "Probably more than one, but what one in particular?"

"You said for _you_, it would be better now. But I get something I never had before, too. Never, not with anyone, none of the previous ones, not even a year ago with you."

"What's that?" she asked.

"I get to sleep with - in every sense, not just sex - the mother of my child."

Her hand tightened in his. It was then, of course, that the child in question woke up and inserted himself into the conversation. They broke apart, laughing, and went in together to tend to him.

Later on, settling down against her, feeling a sweet peace in this moment that was so unfamiliar and precious that it almost overwhelmed him, running one hand along her hair as if unable to believe he had the right, Wilson said softly, "I love you."

Sandra didn't reply, and he looked more closely at her. She was already sound asleep. Just then, his cell phone chirped, and he reached over to the night stand to pick it up. It was a text from House. _Hell day?_

Wilson quickly typed out a response. _No. Good night, House. _

The reply came quickly. _:) _

Smiling himself, Wilson put the cell phone up and joined Sandra in the best night's sleep he'd had in months, even if punctuated by parental duties.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Here's the next chapter. Again, as I mentioned back in Desperado, if you have never heard RPC2, do yourself a favor and check it out. It is magnificent.

(H/C)

_Greg walked into the deserted living room softly, almost on tiptoe, even though there was no one to hear in the house right then. His mother had just gone out the front door to get the mail, and John was at work. _

_The instrument dominated the room, gleaming as if lit from within. The black and white keys seemed to draw him, darkness and light interlocked, fitting perfectly, organized, making sense somehow in this crazy world. He had never been this close to a piano before. It had arrived yesterday afternoon, a late birthday gift from John to Blythe, and for the rest of the evening, his mother had been almost like a little girl, wrapped up in excitement, plunking out various tunes with more enthusiasm than skill. John had been in an excellent mood himself, proud of the deal he had gotten, no doubt already bragging on it around the base. Nothing had happened last night, and for that alone, for putting John in a good mood, Greg was grateful to this instrument. _

_He reached out tentatively, automatically choosing one of the black keys, and pressed it. One note sounded through the room and straight through his soul. He pressed it again, and it sang back in reply. Over and over he played it, not hunting for a tune as Blythe had been, simply reveling in having control of something. Even more amazing, it was something beautiful. Beauty, right here, under his hands and responding to him._

_Blythe's hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped sharply, almost tripping. She steadied him. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm sorry, honey." _

_He flinched as the memory of the stairs surged in. Endlessly falling, over and over, the pain and the larger fear. _

_"Would you like that?" _

_Greg blinked and focused. "What? I mean, um, I didn't . . ." _

_Blythe gave a fond laugh. "You can get lost in your own little world so quickly at times, Greg. I said, maybe someday, we can get you lessons, and you could learn how to play it. Would you like that?" _

_He stared, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the thought. "I . . . Dad wouldn't . . . they cost money." _

_"I know, and yes, he watches the budget. It's the Marine in him, everything by requisition. That's just how he is, dear. But maybe, just maybe, we could work something out eventually so you could have lessons. Maybe I could get a discounted rate or something. Your father would appreciate that; he likes a deal. How does that sound?" _

_Having the instrument here was itself almost magical, the advent of beauty into this house. The idea of learning to play it, to _really_ play it, was too much to hope for. He took a quick look right and left, but John wasn't here. "Yes," he said, his heartbeat picking up a little bit at his daring. "I'd like that." _

_Blythe ruffled his hair. "We'll see what happens. Okay? Only don't talk to your father about it. Let me handle the idea with him." _

_He wouldn't have dreamed of talking to him about it. Blythe sat down on the bench herself and resumed trying to pick out tunes unskillfully, and he settled onto the couch, listening. He couldn't help noticing how bad of a player she was, but even so, he stayed and soaked up every note. Just to be close was enough right now. And maybe, someday, he could have lessons. He was afraid to hope, but part of him couldn't help it. _

_(H/C)_

_Greg finished playing the piece and paused before looking over to Ms. Sanderson, taking a moment to relish that odd feeling of belonging, of _rightness_ the piano always gave him. He knew he was still a beginner, of course, but nothing in his life had ever been like this. Part of him was still unable to believe it, waiting for the other shoe to drop as it always did._

_Ms. Sanderson smiled. "That was wonderful, Greg. You've been working hard." _

_He actually hadn't. He practiced, yes, always picking times when John wasn't home, afraid to draw his father's attention lest the approved free lessons be withdrawn. But it wasn't work. It was pure joy. _

_His teacher gave his shoulder a pat. "Really, Greg. You're very talented. I think you could go all the way if you want to. In fact, I have a special treat for you today." _

_He tensed up a little bit in reflex, but she had never taunted or belittled him. She reached into her purse, kept beside her chair next to the piano, and pulled out an envelope. "Two tickets to a concert next Saturday. It's a guest pianist from Russia, and he and the symphony are doing Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto. You ought to hear some true piano music, Greg, at its best." She looked over to Blythe, sitting to one side of the room listening as always. "Can you two go to a concert next Saturday night, Blythe?" _

_"I don't see why not. John is gone on maneuvers the next two weeks. It will give us something to do. Thank you, Linda. That's very thoughtful of you." Greg was still sitting stunned into silence at the thought of going to hear a true piano concert. "What do you say, Greg?" Blythe prompted._

_He came to life. "Thank you, ma'am. Thank you so much." His shining eyes were more thanks than the words themselves. _

_Ms. Sanderson had a sparkle in her own eye. "You deserve it, Greg." _

_He was almost too excited to remember that he didn't deserve good things._

_(H/C)_

_Greg squirmed in his seat, too excited to sit still. He had never been to a professional concert before, and this whole evening was unreal thus far. Blythe had driven to the city, and they had even gone out to eat before heading over to the symphony hall. Even having to wear his best clothes didn't dampen the atmosphere tonight. He looked around, absorbing the huge auditorium, the stage with the orchestra drifting in now to tune in merry cacophony, the podium, and most of all the concert grand piano, center stage, silent now but just waiting to have its voice called forth. _

_Blythe smiled at him. "Once the music starts, Greg, you have to sit still. You can't disrupt people around us." _

_"I will," he promised. The orchestra members were filling in more now, the crowd settling around them. Suddenly a violinist came in from the side, and the orchestra was immediately at attention. He played one note, and they responded in multivoice unison. Satisfied, he sat down, and the audience and the orchestra waited. The moment was pregnant. _Something_ was about to happen, something big. Greg could feel it hovering, could almost reach out to touch it. _

_The conductor entered along with the pianist, and everyone applauded as the orchestra stood up. House looked at the man, this professional pianist from Russia. He looked just like _anybody_ right now. The conductor took the podium, and the pianist sat down, adjusted the bench, and then reached out to the keyboard. _

_The piano started alone, quiet, almost understated. Two chords, then two more, slowly building, the repeated pulse almost seizing the audience and carrying them into the music with him. Eight times that double pulse sounded, and then abruptly, the orchestra joined, and the piano part took flight. _

_Greg was spellbound. Blythe had no need to remind him to sit still; he couldn't have moved if he tried. He was riveted to the pianist, the man's hands flying over the keyboard, now compelling it, now caressing it. The man somehow almost privately there with the instrument, though in front of the eyes of hundreds. The music surged around them, living, breathing, feeling. Watching that pianist struck a chord deep inside Greg that even the arrival of the little piano at home had not. _

_There was more, not just music but life. That was the unmistakable message of all of it, written so large that he couldn't have failed to read. There was a world outside of the one he was trapped in. All he had to do was find his way there. It was possible. It was real. _

_He sat mesmerized, watching those flying hands, and for tonight, it was suddenly easy to believe. _

(H/C)

House opened his eyes. The concerto was still playing mentally, and he settled back into the pillow, listening.

He actually _had_ had dreams of music tonight. Part of him was grateful to Thornton, even while part resented the fact that he had been that gullible to suggestion. He was also impressed in retrospect at the acting ability not just of Blythe but even more of Ms. Sanderson. She had been the lead conspirator, according to Thornton, and Blythe, of course, never could have put that subterfuge together. The fact that his mother had perpetuated it and kept the secret would have pushed her limits. But Ms. Sanderson with that gleam that so often had crept into her eyes, enjoying giving him lessons, enjoying the private secret of the piano. He could believe it now, although of course, back then, he had never questioned. He never could have questioned, as Jensen had said. It had been the one good thing in his life. To challenge that had been unthinkable.

He wondered if Ms. Sanderson had suspected the identity, in general even though not in name, of his mysterious musical benefactor. She had always seemed to be enjoying every minute of lessons, he remembered, perhaps even privately enjoying putting the ultimate one over on John. She never had liked him much.

This was now Thursday. House gave a glance at the clock to confirm it. Thornton's package of proof would probably arrive either today or tomorrow, hopefully today. His father had said he was mailing it Tuesday, and assuming first class, it should be close now. House wondered what that independent proof was. Some kind of piano receipt, maybe? Or a receipt for the money he had sent? He was curious about the exact form it would take, but he no longer really doubted the fact. The dream itself had confirmed it for him. Looking back, he could sense the silent waves of communication that had been passing over his head at the time between Blythe and Ms. Sanderson, and Blythe's conversation suggesting lessons to him was so obviously contrived now, just introducing an idea already set in motion.

Belle stirred against his side and gave a questioning trill, and House reached down to scratch her ears in reassurance. She purred, her song underscoring quietly the concerto playing mentally. House slid closer to Cuddy and closed his eyes again, relishing the music and what he had now. It had been a long road, but he had finally found that world of possibility for himself. Hard to believe at times still that it was real, but Cuddy's presence next to him was sweet confirmation.

His last thought before he fell back asleep was that he was glad Ms. Sanderson had in fact been paid after all for starting him on the way.


	23. Chapter 23

House woke up gradually, aware of two things fairly quickly: First, the absence on the other side of the bed, and second, that his leg was hurting a little worse than usual but also not as much as he would have expected. He could hear the low rumble of thunder outside and the rain against the window even before he opened his eyes to a gray dawn. Great, a stormy weather day.

Resigning himself to it, he looked over at the clock - 6:15 - and then stretched down an exploring arm along his leg. Not only was Belle atop it, but beneath the cat and positioned carefully across his thigh was the heating pad.

He looked at Cuddy's side of the bed, suddenly lost again in amazement at what he had and as always in the hidden fear, though decreasing, that it would be taken away. He remembered rainy mornings of the past, waking up late from a chopped-up night of trouble sleeping, sitting up gradually against the sharp-toothed monster gnawing his thigh, hoping that maybe, if he moved carefully enough, his leg would hold up when he stood, usually having it collapse beneath him in spite of his efforts.

If he had to have a rainy morning, this wasn't a bad way to wake up on one. He scratched Belle's ears and felt an odd contentment go head-to-head against the pain.

The bedroom door opened softly, and Cuddy entered, obviously recently out of her post-yoga shower. She held a cup of coffee in each hand. "Good morning, Greg." He saw the unspoken concern and the question behind her eyes, and he was grateful that she didn't make a point of asking. He sat up slowly against the headboard, letting her come to her own assessment. He was also trying not to disturb the cat, which of course failed. Belle moved over with one flick-lash and then climbed back onto his leg and the heating pad once he was still again with a look that clearly said, "Marvel at the depth of my tolerance and patience with you."

Cuddy got back into bed on her side, offered him his cup, and took a sip of her own. "No chocolate cake last night?" she asked. She hadn't noticed an extended absence, and she usually woke up if he was gone for a while.

"No." House took a drink, suddenly grateful that he hadn't had a nightmare again, either. His leg really wouldn't have liked waking up from one of those with the weather as it was. "I dreamed about music."

"That's a good dream, isn't it?" she asked, watching his expression and wondering at the brief flash of annoyance there.

"Very good dream. John wasn't even in that one. I dreamed about starting piano lessons and then about going to my first concert. Remember the Rachmaninoff concerto?" They had gone to hear it on their first official date together.

She slid a little closer to him, sharing the memory. "I'll never forget that night. It was incredible. I'll also always remember what you said before the concert, about a world of possibility."

"That's what I was thinking that first night. I'd never really thought of there being more out there and how limited John's circle was. After that night, I knew that if I kept at it, I could eventually escape, that there was something greater in the world than him."

She slipped an arm around him, but she didn't linger on the bad elements of the past, sticking with the positive side of the memory. "I wonder now if there was some kind of special genetic recognition or attraction there, too, since your grandfather was a concert pianist. Maybe watching that one . . ."

He scoffed. "Sort of a 'this is my true inheritance' moment? I didn't know Thornton was my father yet, and I didn't know about my grandfather until two months ago. Forget the deep ancestral recognition mumbo-jumbo. It was spectacular music. That was more than enough."

Cuddy wasn't convinced she was wrong, but she filed that theory privately. "I'm glad it was a good dream last night, Greg."

"You were curious about the chocolate cake, though, weren't you? Wondering if that's still bothering me?" Her expression confirmed it. "I told you, Lisa, it _isn't_ bothering me. It's a perfectly innocent dream about a cake. There _isn't_ any tension there. I'm the expert on tense dreams; I ought to recognize one when I see it."

Again, she noticed his very-uncharacteristic lack of curiosity here, even with part of the dream hidden. She almost pointed that out to him, then grudgingly yielded to Patterson's advice. "I'm just worried about it since it keeps repeating. Please mention it to Jensen, okay? If he says it means nothing, I'll be satisfied."

"So you'll accept his opinion but not mine?" He finished his coffee and then looked down at the cat, obviously deciding to change the subject. "Thornton says the piano teacher was their conspirator for the piano. Also lessons. He sent her an anonymous donation to cover the piano and lessons, and she found a used piano and acted as go-between on that, so John would think it was only $50. She also recommended delaying my lessons a month or so, so it wouldn't seem to come right together and make him suspicious. Fortunately, Mom really _did_ want a piano, even though she couldn't play worth anything, and she had already mentioned that several times to John, so he could accept a great deal on one without automatically wondering if it was actually about me."

Cuddy smiled. "The piano teacher sounds pretty sharp. I knew Blythe couldn't have set that up."

"She was, a really neat lady. When she wasn't teaching music, she was reading mysteries, and she had a whole bookcase full in her house. She must have felt like she'd been dropped into one of her stories. I was just remembering last night in the dream how she always seemed to have this particular sparkle in her eye when she was teaching me. She definitely was in on some secret. I can see it now, but I never noticed at the time. Too lost in the music."

"Do you think she suspected that it was your biological father sending money and that John wasn't actually related?" House didn't really resemble John, nor Blythe. He _did_ look like Thornton in a subtle way, although nothing like the resemblance to the grandfather. Of course, Cuddy told herself, the piano teacher might not have ever seen Thornton on one of his occasional visits, but she had John and Blythe right there locally for comparison if she was astute enough to put it together. There couldn't be too many candidates for a mysterious benefactor sending that amount of money.

"I wonder," House replied. Just then, the girls woke up for the day. Cuddy gave him a quick kiss, then slid off the bed.

"I'll go get them up." She didn't add the unspoken completion that he could get himself up, nor that it was debatable which would take more time.

House moved Belle over again with a scratch of apology, offered her the heating pad in compensation, and then slowly shifted to sit on the side of the bed. His leg stabbed, but all in all, it could have been worse. As rainy mornings went, this wasn't even coming close to hell day. He sat there massaging his leg, steeling himself for the effort, and when he stood, it didn't give way under him. With a sigh of relief, he pulled on his robe and headed across the hallway to say good morning to his girls.

(H/C)

Wilson was thoroughly enjoying the morning himself, having breakfast with Sandra and Daniel, getting ready for work. When the nanny arrived, though, and he and Sandra had retreated to their bedroom (_their _bedroom, he thought with a smile) for final touches on getting ready to leave, he pulled out his cell phone and sat down on the bed. "I want to call Jensen before he gets wrapped up in his day. He deserves a quick update. He's probably already at his office; he gets there early." Sandra nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, pulling the door shut. She could probably still hear some, but he appreciated the gesture.

Sure enough, Jensen answered the phone promptly, and there was only the silence of a deserted office in the background. "Good morning, James." It was almost a question.

"Yes, it is." Wilson looked at the closed bathroom door and smiled again. "I took your advice last night, and it worked."

He could hear Jensen's smile from the other end. "That's wonderful, James. Good job. I know that wasn't easy to do."

"No, but the results were worth it. I'll tell you more details next time, but I think I'm out of the dog house." As long as he didn't cheat again, but that would never be acceptable. At this moment, he honestly couldn't imagine _being_ attracted to anybody else. She and Daniel were too precious in his life.

"Good." Jensen hesitated on the edge of asking, then jumped on in. "Did you talk to Dr. House as well as Sandra?"

"Yes, I did. Stopped there first. Actually, he _did_ cheat." Wilson couldn't resist throwing that out there, spinning it out a little, but he didn't wait too long. He knew that Jensen deserved to have his curiosity satisfied, and he knew - and still marveled - that he wouldn't be able to shake the psychiatrist's belief in House. "Furthermore, it was at Cathy's birthday party, right under your nose. He didn't cheat on Cuddy, though. He cheated on their cat."

Jensen immediately put the pieces together and burst out laughing. "That kitten! I might have guessed that he was involved somehow. He's certainly into everything else within his reach. We have a new trash can that's more like a bank vault, and the toilet paper now lives in the bathroom cabinet, which also has a new lock on it. James, if Daniel ever wants a Siamese kitten, try offering something with a little lower-octane first and see if he'll accept that instead."

Wilson laughed himself. "I'll remember that. House said he was rather demanding. Does Cathy like the little tyrant, at least?"

"Cathy loves him." And clearly, in spite of protests about the trash and the toilet paper, that made it all worth it to Cathy's father. Wilson imagined giving Daniel gifts through the years, finding ones specifically geared to him.

"Well, I need to get to work. I just wanted to tell you thanks."

"You're welcome, James. Have a good day."

"I intend to." Wilson hung up. With his smile still in place, he stood up and retrieved his shoes, and Sandra came back out of the bathroom. Together, they finished getting ready, then left for work.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Hi, readers. Brief preview of coming attractions once Legacy is over. (It ends on Saturday, fic time, several chapters left, but yes, we're getting there.) Next up is a one-shot, nice family scene with enough spice and stress for interest. Following that will be a longer story, from Christmastime and into the New Year. That one has some specific external stressors for House again. And the latest, just forming the idea while driving on Wednesday, will be another long story after that, a case story but where the case personally involves one of House's team. I'll keep going with Pranks as long as my muse wants, and it seems to be rolling along fine on the series. Enjoy this chapter. Thornton up next.

(H/C)

Wilson had anticipated the abrupt - and knockless - entry into his office Thursday morning. He didn't even have to look up from his appointment schedule. "Good morning, House."

House limped to a stop in front of the desk. "So how good of a morning is it? An _excellent_ morning, so-so good morning, scattered but clearing clouds, partly sunny?"

"You sound like a weather forecast." Wilson looked up and then focused a little more sharply on his friend. House was standing a little more crooked than usual, balancing his weight carefully. The difference was subtle, but it was noticeable to familiar eyes. For the first time this morning, Wilson _did_ notice the weather: Dark and thundering, rain lashing the balcony door. House probably had excellent reasons today to have weather on his mind.

House read the thought and immediately deflected, turning away and sitting down on the couch with some extra stiffness of annoyance added. "You hadn't even noticed, had you? You did bring an umbrella." He looked over to where it was opened in the corner behind the desk drying. "You were just functioning on automatic. So is it _that_ good a morning?"

Wilson grinned, suddenly enjoying this exchange while also reassured by it. House was still House, and they were still friends. "It's a _good_ morning, House. That's as much as I'm telling." He usually didn't mind talking about Sandra, and they had often, but for some reason, this morning, he didn't want a typical male conversation bragging on a victory last night. He wanted to savor it privately for a while.

House tilted his head, studying him. "What about last night? Is that also private, and if so, at which precise hour did it become so?"

"Basically, she listened to me, I realized some things myself, and we're a lot better now. But I'm not giving you a blow-by-blow account through the night of how much better, so you'll have to settle for that."

"Would this refused account, if it did exist, be blow-by-blow literally?" House asked.

"House."

His friend's lips quirked. "Your body language says plenty, anyway. Besides, you look like you finally really slept last night - at least when you _weren't_ sleeping. I'm glad for you. So Belle actually helped things."

"She did in the long run, but seriously, you guys need to watch having conversations like that at work."

"You _were_ eavesdropping, after all. We were out at the end of the balcony, not standing in the middle of the lobby. But we'll be sure to keep a continuous check for you from now on instead of just checking at the beginning. Every other sentence will be, 'Come on out and join us, Wilson.'"

Wilson smiled. "I'll admit that was wrong of me, but I can't argue with the results in the end. Jensen helped a whole lot, too."

"He's good," House agreed, perfectly serious that time.

"I called him this morning just to tell him I took his advice, and he thought the whole idea of cheating on a cat was hilarious. He was talking a little bit about that kitten. Sounds like it's been into everything in New York as well as our lives. He mentioned trash scavenger hunts and toilet paper streamers if not confetti."

"Well, there's that side of the name, too." Wilson looked blank. "Cathy named him Mozart. I made a joke about him singing opera - _bad _opera. That is what he sounds like. She asked me who all wrote operas and picked that one. But Mozart personally was apparently something of a fun-loving prankster."

Now that the oncologist was thinking of Jensen . . . "By the way, House, something else I realized. About Thornton."

Tensing up wasn't a strong enough word. House literally hurt himself with it, and Wilson could hear the iron doors slamming shut. For the first time in the last few months, though, he saw that it was more than just stubbornness on wanting to do it his way. This really _was_ a huge issue for House.

Wilson went on carefully. "I just wanted to say, I realize that I haven't handled that subject very well since it came up at the trial, and I've acted like I thought you ought to be doing things differently. I apologize. If I had been you, I probably wouldn't have dealt with it as well as you did. I know I couldn't have gone on testifying and faced cross right after he abruptly dropped back into my life. I would have been a wreck by that point even if I hadn't been earlier. Anyway, I apologize."

House lurched to his feet. The tension hadn't decreased any. In fact, his sole motive at the moment was obviously escape, though he did toss one quick verbal nod toward the oncologist on his way out. "Yeah. Well, I need to get back to Bucks, Not Junior. The team was checking on labs and test results." The door closed, and he was gone.

Wilson sighed. He thought the apology _had_ been appreciated - that _yeah_ said a lot in Housian terms - but his friend clearly didn't trust this as a conversational topic yet. Wilson reluctantly pulled the desk phone over, remembering the remaining part of Jensen's advice, to ask Cuddy how she was approaching the issue of Thornton herself. He couldn't argue with the results following Jensen's advice so far, but Wilson also had been a little wary of Cuddy since her own meltdown three months ago. The memory of her searing voicemail to him on the night he had walked out was still in the back of his mind. Even Sandra had thought Cuddy had gone too far. He knew she was in therapy herself now, knew she was getting better, but he was still a little nervous to give her a direct shot at him. He looked over at the picture of his family on the wall - for encouragement this time, not for speculation - and then made a temporary dodge by calling Cuddy's secretary instead of her to find out when she had a few minutes open in her schedule today. Duly noting it down on his own day, Wilson reached for the file for his first appointment and settled into work.

(H/C)

The atmosphere in Castleton's room matched that of the outside world this morning. Brad wasn't there at the moment. His mother was, but her posture was so stiff that she looked like she was about to break. She sat by the bed, but she and her son were both turned slightly away from each other. Castleton's girlfriend, as ever, was on the other side, and she alone hadn't changed in demeanor, close to her man, trying to be supportive. Typically, Castleton was buried in the laptop, hardly seeming to notice her. There was a new fragility to him, though, and he looked more distracted. The consciousness of disease had set in with a heavy hand, and none of the rest of his world was quite as important as it had seemed a few short days ago.

House entered the room, trailed by a trio of team members in varying stages of curiosity. With the diagnosis rock solid and lab-proven now, this was normally where House would bow out and return to his video game, leaving mop-up operations to them. Instead, he wanted to deliver the results and discuss treatment himself. Taub was mildly curious, Kutner extremely curious and working on complicated psychological analysis of this fact like a terrier, and Foreman was disgusted. He of the three was the most secure in his theory: Why should House watch soap operas on TV when there was a live one right here to be enjoyed?

"Good morning," House said, with just enough mocking lilt on the good to emphasize that he knew it was no such thing. He was addressing Castleton; the mother might not have existed today. He waited for the man to look up from the laptop. "Well, based on the kidney biopsy, you definitely have Alport syndrome, and furthermore, you got it as a recessive gene contributed by both parents. If your mother had given genetic consideration to her choice of cheating partner, you'd be fine." Mrs. Castleton bristled, and House quickly continued, neither wanting nor caring about her opinion of his manners. This whole thing was _her_ fault, after all. He wondered if she had apologized to her son yet - or ever would. Not that that would change anything. "We need to test your other half-siblings. No guarantee that their mother wasn't a carrier, too."

"If he _has_ other half-siblings," Foreman put in softly.

"Oh, he does. I looked up Forest, Incorporated, online yesterday and checked out Daddy Forestbucks. He has three other kids, two boys and a girl. Males more likely to be affected by the disease, but any one of the three, or Brad from this side, might be a good match for a kidney donor down the road, too, if they're healthy. Have you talked to Forest yet? Loving family reunion planned?"

Mrs. Castleton spoke up sharply. "I don't think that's any of your . . ."

Castleton cut her off, and House felt a stab of admiration along with amusement. The kid was learning quickly. He might not have heard her comment crystal clear, but he wasn't deaf yet. He definitely _had_ known she was speaking, and he pretended that he hadn't, his mother promptly yielding. Already learning to twist circumstances to his favor this soon after fate had tackled him to the mat. He had talent. "I emailed him yesterday," Castleton replied. "I told him everybody needed to get tested and also . . . well, I emailed him."

"So when is the party? I'll be sure to come with syringes and Vacutainers in hand."

His mother put a hand on her son's arm that time, trying to claim her spot in line. "Dr. House, we _won't_ be requiring your presence. We . . ."

Her son shrugged the hand off. "_We?_ I told you, I want to talk to him without you. _You've_ had 23 years that you could have talked to him - or to me or to Dad. Besides, you can't tell me you didn't talk to him yesterday already."

She looked down. "I left a message," she admitted.

Castleton suddenly grinned. "He hasn't gotten back to you yet? He at least replied to me, even if it took several hours." He looked back to House. "He's coming this afternoon about 4:00. That's the first slot he had in his schedule." Bitterness coated the words thickly. There was a twinge of memory, too. Apparently, his fathers shared the business-is-life philosophy.

Castleton went on quickly, not wanting to linger there. "I want to talk to him _alone_." He looked from House to his mother. He didn't turn to the girlfriend, although her expression was understanding. "But after that, you can explain the medical stuff. Maybe 4:30. No, make it 4:15. Just _you_, though, not the whole parade. You have a name; he'll listen to you. They're nobody. And Mom, stay out. You can nail him in the lobby afterwards."

Only House was satisfied with that plan. "I'll be here," he promised. "Down to the medical stuff, first, you're going to get an eye exam later this morning. Alport can affect the eyes, too. Not as often as the hearing, but we need to check."

Castleton was stunned. "I'm going _blind_, too?"

"Eye complications are a lot rarer, and they are fixable with surgery. You won't go blind, not unless you have those complications and ignore them. We've already started you on medicine, and you'll be on that for life. That will slow the progression of the kidney disease. Audiology will also be back up today to get you set up for hearing aids. You're also going to have to make some significant dietary changes. I printed out a renal diet for you."

House handed it over, and Castleton's eyes widened. "Avoid phosphorous, potassium, high protein, sodium. This includes peanut butter, cheese, beer, nuts, coffee, chocolate, meat, milk, eggs, and salt. Are you kidding?" His girlfriend touched his arm soothingly. He didn't shake her off as he had his mother, but his eyes were still glued to the paper.

"Dietary changes are optional, of course, but if you want to delay kidney transplant, you'll listen." House looked at his watch. "I'll be back at 4:15. The rest of the parade will look in through the day as you get the consults." He turned and limped out, and the parade followed him, Kutner still curious, Taub still mildly so as well as somewhat amused and resigned, Foreman thoroughly annoyed at his classification as "nobody."

Once in the elevator, House checked his watch again. "Foreman, my office for a minute. The rest of you, get lost for at least the next hour." The others stayed on the elevator when it opened, and Foreman followed him to the office. House turned once they were through the doorway, not even waiting to sit down. "You have an appointment this afternoon, right?"

"Yes," Foreman admitted.

"Good. Make use of it." House held his eyes, not defiantly but firmly, and after a moment, Foreman looked down first. "Now scram. I've got an important TV show coming up." He turned on the set, and Foreman walked out.

Once he was alone, House switched off the TV and sat down, his right hand massaging his leg, his left wrist twisting so he could see his watch.

(H/C)

Ruby was young and enthusiastic, only a few weeks into her freshman year at the university and her part-time job in the mail room at PPTH. The magical savor of independence hadn't worn off yet. She was going to do it right, had her whole future planned, and everyone, even supervisors on part-time jobs, would know that she had her act together and was going to _be_ somebody in a few years.

Martha was jaded after two divorces and more than enough independence. She already knew, as did her supervisors, that she wasn't going to be much beyond what she was now. She was, however, amused at Ruby, half in memory, half in sympathy, cringing as she heard the approaching footsteps of life's disappointment.

That was why she had listened and offered advice when Ruby returned from her mail run Tuesday talking about Dr. House, whom she had finally run into in his office as she delivered the mail. "You have to change your attitude with him. Don't seem enthusiastic, don't tell him good morning, don't talk to him at all. He doesn't want to see you. And he _hates_ mail and paperwork; you're already annoying him just by bringing it. So make yourself a mouse, creep in and out, low profile." She looked at Ruby and sighed. "You need to work on low profile. Once in a while, it helps. Not everybody in life wants friendly service. Tell you what, I'll take his mail up tomorrow, and you can tag along and watch."

"I have class tomorrow morning," Ruby had said. "I'm working Thursday morning."

"Thursday then, assuming he's in the office at the right moment. If not, we'll keep trying, and I'll show you how it's done. Save the good intentions for somebody who cares. He doesn't care about the mail, and he never will. Lost cause."

So here they were on Thursday, exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, going to Dr. House first before dividing for the rest of their assigned sections. "Now watch this," Martha said as they approached the office. "Low profile. Remember that."

Martha opened the door without knocking and entered the office without greeting, simply walking over to the desk to put the mail down and leave.

House stood up as quickly as he could, and Martha jerked to a startled stop at the intensity in those bright blue eyes and at their focus - on _her_. For the first time in all her years at the hospital, she had no doubt that he was 100% focused on her. "Where the hell have you been? It took you long enough."

"We . . . um . . ." She was speechless. Actually, it was a little _early_ today, since they were doing House first on the delivery run.

House limped over and snatched the stack out of her hand. "I want it _promptly_ every morning." He immediately started sifting through the pile while standing there, literally tossing the top few envelopes aside, then stopped and stared back up at her. "Why are you still here?"

Martha collected her thoughts and her feet, turned, and left the office.

The two paused at the elevator, looking back toward the office, then at each other. Martha squared her shoulders. "Okay, I was wrong. The only hard-and-fast rule with him is that there _are_ no rules. Just play it by ear day to day, get out as soon as you can, and don't let him bother you whatever he does. Some people are just jackasses."


	25. Chapter 25

The envelope was a simple letter-sized white one, not noticeable at all in the stack of mail this time. Nothing remarkable about it except the return address. House limped back to the desk and tossed the rest of the mail onto it, ignoring the few envelopes which had been on top of this one and were now littering the floor. He slipped a finger behind the flap and tore it open eagerly.

The contents consisted of a letter, and he would have known the handwriting anywhere as his mother's. This was actually the original of the letter, decades old and the paper a little faded, but it was still quite legible. Thornton must have made himself a copy before mailing this one. House sat back into his chair and started reading, holding it out a little because he didn't take time to put on his reading glasses.

_Dear Thomas,_

_It's here! The piano arrived two days ago. Linda found a very good deal on one in the city, she said, although it still seems like a lot of money to me. She arranged to ship it, so there's nobody around the base area locally who knows any different on the cover story. John thinks it cost $50, and he's in a good mood at the deal he got. It's beautiful. I really have always wanted one, even if I can't do much more than pick out tunes. _

_And Greg is fascinated. I'll catch him sometimes just looking at it when he thinks nobody's around, and yesterday, he was just standing there playing one note, just one over and over. Linda thinks that we need to delay any mention of lessons for him for a month or two to distance it from the piano itself, so John won't get suspicious about the timing. That's what I meant about her and all those mystery books. She understands how to plot things a lot better than I do. So poor Greg will have to wait for just a little longer. I did ask him yesterday afternoon if he would like lessons, just couldn't resist that, and he said he would but that we didn't have the money. I told him maybe something eventually can be worked out so he can take them. I did remind him not to mention it to John, of course, but really, he's amazingly quiet at times. He knows how to keep a secret, same as Linda. I think it's probably safe with him, and it will give him something to look forward to. Not that I told him everything, of course. He has no idea who you are, who you really are, I mean, and he thinks John really did get the piano for $50. But he does seem very interested in it. _

_Linda says there's enough of your money left for about a year worth of lessons. Of course, we'll probably be reposted then, anyway. This is a grasshopper life, not that I have to tell you that. I do wish sometimes that we could simply STAY somewhere, but John loves the service. I doubt he'll retire until he ages out. _

_Linda also said that she just got the schedule for the upcoming concert season of the closest orchestra, and in about 6 months, they're doing some piano piece. She did give the name, but I couldn't pronounce it. Something Russian, she said. She wanted to know if you would mind if two tickets to that for Greg and me came out of the remainder of the money. She said if he has a benefactor who is trying to give him a musical education, he ought to hear some of the real thing at least once as well as taking lessons. I told her I was sure that's fine. From the date, it looks like John will probably be off on maneuvers then, a couple of weeks training, so that will make it easy. I'll just have to make sure that Greg doesn't tell John. John would wonder about where the money came from. _

_Anyway, the lessons are in the works. I'll update you after Greg starts. _

_Thank you so much, Thomas. This is the best birthday present I've ever had, even though I know it's really for Greg, not me. And thank you again for staying in the background and not making waves when you could have. I can't even think of that night as a mistake now, though. It was that that finally completed the family I've always wanted. _

_Blythe_

House finished the letter and sat there for a minute, digesting it as if a meal. This was indeed unquestionable proof regarding the music, although he hadn't needed it after last night. So Thornton had also paid for the concert, the night when he himself had first seen a world of possibility.

He tried to reread it, but the words on the paper were shimmering. He finally realized that his hands were trembling faintly, agitating the letter, and he put it down in annoyance and gripped his thinking ball to steady himself, not tossing it, simply holding. It wasn't the musical proof that held the strongest impact this morning. Blythe's everything-fine-here perception of their home life permeated that letter, almost like a perfume, the scent lingering and identifying this unmistakably as hers even years later. There was a difference between knowing that Blythe had written Thornton - something he'd only known very recently - and actually reading one.

How much of this had the absent Thornton been spoon fed over the years?

Not that that was an excuse, of course. Thornton had a sharp intelligence and an analysis that Blythe lacked. He also _had_ visited every year or two. House paused to count them up. Ten visits between age 3 and age 18. After leaving home, House then hadn't seen the man for decades until briefly at John's funeral. Thornton had been based with John for two years covering the pregnancy and House's first year, and then he had moved. After that, there were ten times in House's life Thornton had visited him. On none of those had the two of them ever been alone, not that House would have said anything anyway, especially after he tried once at age six, but Thornton had been there seeing the family interact for a day ten times, and the man had eyes. Still . . .

House pulled the laptop over and logged on, going to email, sending one quick line.

_How often did she write to you? How many letters?_

Thornton was there, he was sure, wondering if the letter would draw any sort of reaction. The other man could have worked out from Tuesday minus CD time about when the mail run was made. He would be waiting. Sure enough, the reply landed in only a minute.

_Blythe wrote me roughly every month or two while you were a kid, maybe every year or two after you left home, although I also tracked you myself once you started your career up until my wife got sick. There are 129 letters. 113 of those are from before you left._

_Thomas_

House read it three times, and the figure remained the same. 129 letters, 113 from childhood. Each of them full of this sort of family update, no doubt, another chapter of Blythe in Oblivionland. In fact, he was sure that most of the letters would be much _worse_ than this one, chronicles of little moments of life with John that looked so different with the details filled in. This one was about the piano, which was even in childhood purely a good thing. Almost every other incident he could think of that might have been newsworthy was double-edged.

129 letters. He now had one. Part of him considered asking Thornton to mail the lot; if anybody had a right to this stuff, he did. The larger part of him knew that he couldn't handle it. He pictured them arriving, each one a nightmare - at least one nightmare if not more - as bad as Tuesday night's, each reminding him all the more of what his past _really_ had consisted of. Even just reading Blythe's therapy notes last year had reduced him to a trembling, teary-eyed lump, and those were written in detached, professional psych-speak and covered issues where Blythe realized at last how completely wrong she had been. But all those letters, written from the middle of it, with no insight, just the same overwhelming good family life that Blythe thought at the time they had had.

He couldn't do it. A bulk delivery like that would go beyond his limits. He was so certain of that that the fact even outweighed his annoyance at his weakness.

129 letters. Put together, it would deserve an ISBN number. He wondered if it would be filed under plain fiction or fantasy.

Slowly, he picked up the one again from his desk and methodically ripped it up until only tiny confetti remained.

He was grateful suddenly that Thornton hadn't asked if he wanted the whole box shipped out today. It saved him having to say no.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton sat on the edge of his office chair, waiting, hoping. For once, he was hoping _not_ to get a reply, at least not quickly. "Take a few minutes to think about it, Greg," he urged the monitor. If Greg asked for the whole letter collection, he knew he would have to send it, and he knew what a mistake that would be. He had read them. He had reread the whole collection just recently, and it gave even _him_ a few nightmares, just guessing what was behind each paragraph. For Greg, it would be infinitely worse.

Thornton had been hoping for the last two days that sending the piano letter hadn't been a mistake. That one was as innocent as any of them, and he had read it over several times before mailing it, hoping it wouldn't be too much. It did say they were a happy family, but _all_ of the letters said that, most of them more in-depth than that one. He wasn't trying to use Blythe's letters as an excuse, because he did think he should have noticed what was going on. He had visited Greg ten times in childhood and once since, not counting the funeral. Those ten from childhood haunted him. However, he had wanted to prove beyond a doubt that he had given the music to his son, sensing music as the first fragile thread of connection between them, something that could be built upon. Blythe's own testimony was the best he had. But he recognized even Tuesday the dangers of redefining the past too quickly. He recognized it even more after Greg's email on Wednesday morning, saying that just Thornton's mention of that birthday dinner (far less detailed than most episodes in the Blythe Chronicle) had given him a nightmare. By that point, the letter was gone and couldn't be called back.

If just Thornton's email had given him a nightmare, the whole box at once would knock him into overload. Yet Thomas could not possibly refuse to send them if asked. That would only get Greg's back up. Nor could he refuse to answer a direct question about them.

He sat there for several minutes, waiting, then finally relaxed a little. He couldn't avoid stirring up his son's memories again, unfortunately, as they got to know each other, and the past _did_ need to be redefined for both of them. But he could at least try to walk even more carefully from here on.

His inbox remained silent. Thornton tossed a mental salute to his son and to Jensen, his son's psychiatrist. "Well done, Greg," he said.

He wondered how his son had slept last night.

(H/C)

Cuddy hung up the phone from her scheduled conference call with an insurance company. She neatly drew a line - a satisfied line - through that mark on her agenda, then frowned slightly at the next added-in note. Her secretary had reported that Wilson wanted to see her for just a few minutes. Well, she wouldn't have long to wait to find out what was going on with him; he was due in five minutes and would no doubt be prompt. She wondered if this was personal related to last night or work.

Her cell phone rang, House's ring tone, and she smiled as she answered. "Hi, Greg."

"What say we escape from this medical rat race for an hour or so at lunch? I know a great Chinese place. They even have approved Chinese vegetables for the few non-carnivores among us."

Even as she replied, she was trying to sort through his tone. There was _something_ there. It was too bright, too joking. "Kind of busy today, but . . . let's see, I could adjust an appointment with the head of pediatrics first thing this afternoon. He can go at 3:00 instead. That would give me a better lunch slot."

"Great. He probably just wants to complain anyway. I swear, I haven't even been near peds lately."

"I'm sure he wants to complain. He never gets enough money. At least he thinks he doesn't. He doesn't realize that there are several other departments in this hospital."

"Imagine that. What a selfish, narrow-minded jerk to think the whole hospital revolves around him. Okay, Lisa. 12:00?"

"That will work." She looked up at Wilson's tap on the door. "Got to go now, but I'll see you then. I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

She hung up, wondering what was up with him. He didn't just want her company for an hour; he needed it. On the other hand, he hadn't walked down to the office, and he was quite capable of interrupting her both personally and professionally. If it were too urgent, he wouldn't have bothered to schedule himself.

Wilson knocked again patiently, and she refocused her thoughts. "Come in." The oncologist entered tentatively. "Come on in and sit down, Wilson. What's wrong in Oncology?"

"Nothing." He walked over and took the chair in front of her desk. "It's not about work."

"Is something wrong with you? Are Sandra and Daniel okay?"

Wilson realized again that House really hadn't told Cuddy he thought Wilson had the subject of cheating on his mind this week. He would have to buy his friend a special lunch for that one. Cuddy probably wouldn't have given him the room to explain himself that House had. "They're fine. I'm fine, too. It's . . . it's personal but not about me."

He hesitated again, and Cuddy sighed. "Go ahead and say it, Wilson, whatever it is. I won't bite you. I know I wasn't reacting straight to things a few months ago, but I'm doing better now."

He took a deep breath. "We need to talk about Thomas Thornton."

She tightened up. No anger, just firm dismissal. "No. That's Greg's subject, and we don't need to do a differential on it without him. Or with him, actually. Leave it alone, Wilson."

"But it was actually Jensen's idea," Wilson protested.

That got her attention. "_Jensen_ thinks we need to talk about Thornton?"

"Yes. He told me to bring it up with you." She looked dubious. "He said to ask you how you're dealing with talking about it with House."

The light dawned. "Oh. That's not quite the same thing, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Telling you the conversational rules that seem to apply here isn't the same thing as _talking_ about Thornton. _Talking _about him implies that we're going to be dissecting the whole situation and deciding what Greg ought to be doing. Which we aren't. I'm not discussing Thornton or how Greg's handling this or what's going on. But I'd be glad to tell you what I'm doing myself if Jensen thinks it would help."

Wilson was still sorting that out. "So what _are_ you doing?"

"First, if you don't mind, could I ask why you're asking?" She wanted to see if Wilson was coming to her out of realization or simply out of frustration.

"He never talks to me about it. I realized yesterday with Jensen, though, that I haven't really handled that subject as well as I could have."

"No, you haven't," she agreed. She had had the report from him of his comment in the court bathroom that day. "But I'm glad you're trying to change that." She leaned forward a little. "I know this is difficult, Wilson. I've talked about it a lot with my own therapist. Keep talking to Jensen; he's safe. But as for what I'm doing with Greg, I never bring it up at all, not unless he does first."

Wilson shook his head. "Like _that_ would ever happen. He's as locked up on this as I've ever seen him. I apologized to him a little while ago, really sincerely apologized - I'd practiced that this morning in the shower. He just acknowledged it and bolted."

Cuddy wondered if that was what had him a bit edgy in his phone call. No, she thought there was more. "Remember back when we first found out about his background? How we had to let him set the pace on sharing it?"

"You really think he _will_ set the pace on this and not just run?"

A little irritation crept into her voice there. "Yes, I do. And if you give him space, let the trust build slowly, he _does_ talk about it in very small bites. But you can't ever push him on it. Patterson gave me some wonderful advice just this week. She reminded me to let Jensen be the psychiatrist and not try myself to be anything besides his wife. Trust Jensen, Wilson. All you have to be with this is his friend."

"But I've _been_ trying." He stopped suddenly. "Maybe that's the trouble. Maybe I need to quit trying so hard and just let us be us."

"That sounds like a great plan to me. You're a good friend, Wilson, just a little interfering at times. But I understand the impulse sometimes, believe me." Thinking of the girls, of time ticking down on the clock given Thornton's age, and of all the wasted time he could have spent with Greg in the past, she _more_ than understood the impulse. There were times she had to hold herself back with both hands. How hard must going slowly be on Thornton himself? She wished she could encourage him somehow, tell him he was making progress, but she couldn't possibly contact him behind House's back. No, that, too, would have to wait. "Like I said, I had to talk about it a lot with Patterson. I know we managed him in the past at times, but we can't do it anymore. Not ever. This is _his_ issue."

Wilson fingered his tie thoughtfully. He suddenly realized why Jensen had referred him to Cuddy. Not only had Jensen been saving time for the major issue of Sandra that critically needed attention yesterday, but it also helped to hear the same advice from two different people, especially when one had a personal stake in the issue. "All right. I'll try. Thanks for talking to me."

"You're welcome."

Wilson was unable to resist pushing the curiosity just slightly, testing her. "Have you actually talked to him since that first night? Thornton, I mean? What's he like?"

She gave him a firm smile. "Let Greg tell you what he's like. _When_ he decides to." After he decides what Thornton is like himself, she added mentally.

"Can't blame me for trying." He stood up. "Okay, I'll work on leaving it alone. We're going out for a guy's night tonight, by the way. Now that we've each had our planned subject crossed off the list, that ought to be interesting."

"So what was his planned subject?" she asked.

He grinned at her. "Ask him yourself sometime. Thanks, Cuddy." He turned and left the office.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Hi, readers. Short Wednesday update. Thanks everybody for reading and reviewing. A couple of notes. First of all, nice pickup, clp66. We have a big Blythe plot that's coming up in the story after the next one, and it will deal extensively with what she did and didn't do during Greg's childhood. Second, a few have mentioned wishing things could speed up with Thornton. I actually do myself, too. :) But we have to take it as the muse gives. However, what we are going to be doing is jumping time. Each of the next three stories, which is as far out as the series is blocked at this point, picks up with a gap since the previous story. So things won't go as slowly with us as they do with poor Thomas.

Glad folks are still enjoying this series. I'll keep on as long as the muse wishes to, and she shows no signs of getting tired of it.

(H/C)

House was five minutes early for lunch, although Cuddy also had cleared everything else off early and was just standing up to go look for him when he entered. He came straight to her across the office, and for once she didn't protest the physical demonstration at work. "Still want Chinese?" she asked once they finally parted.

"Yeah. Just got a craving for it today. Maybe I'm pregnant after all." The joke fell flat, reminding her of the other morning after one of the chocolate cake dreams and adding that concern into the mix as well. She already was watching him closely, and he turned away with annoyed abruptness. "Let's go. Wouldn't want to push your precious schedule too far."

"I've got time, Greg," she said firmly, catching up. "Moved the head of peds, and if I'm late to the conference that's now first this afternoon, they can just wait for me."

He relaxed a little at that, and they headed off for the restaurant. She knew better than to ask any loaded questions over the meal, and their conversation was mostly on the girls, finally winding up on Wilson.

"We're going out tonight," he told her with his mouth full. "I'll be home through getting the girls asleep first, though. Bumped into him on the way down to you, and he wants to meet later himself so he can see Daniel and eat with Sandra."

"Are they doing okay?" she asked. She still didn't know what that had been about last night.

"I think they're doing better. He apparently had a good session yesterday."

New insight on Sandra as well as Thornton? She was impressed once again at Jensen. "I'm glad for him. For _all_ of them. What are you doing tonight?"

"Not sure. Can't go to a bar." He looked out the restaurant window. "Maybe bowling." The rain had stopped, and the clouds were starting to clear. His leg would hopefully be a little less annoyed by then. "Then tomorrow, I'm leaving a little early, about noon." His eyes lit up. "Got an errand to do before heading off to Jensen. So if you can't find me, it's because I'm not there." Ever since her meltdown, he was careful to let her know roughly where he would be if there was any change from routine, and she was grateful for how he always slipped it in without making a point of the reason.

"What kind of errand?"

"A surprise one." He grinned at her and shoved down his last bite.

"For me? The girls? What kind of surprise?"

"A _surprise_ surprise. But I swear, I'm not going out cheating on the cat."

"You'd better not be. She has claws, you know, and she's not afraid to use them."

He stood up. A little of the core of tension in him had relaxed, but he still seemed _off_ to her, and she still had no idea what this lunch had actually been about. "Well, back to the daily grind." Once they had gotten into the car, he added, "By the way, I'm also meeting the _actual _Bucks Sr. this afternoon. He still qualifies for the title. He comes with his own bucks. The family reunion after all these years is set up for 4:00."

Cuddy sighed and looked over at him. "You invited yourself to him meeting his father for the first time?"

"Hey, he invited me, too. He wants me to explain the medical stuff, along with my attached credentials to impress the high-society jerk so he'll listen to me."

"_Please_ don't phrase it that way to either one of them, Greg. I'm still hoping for some donation at the end of this."

He shrugged. "Well, we've actually doubled the fortunes involved from our starting point, so I've helped you out on donation potential. Forest is loaded, too. Maybe he'll be so grateful to the hospital for diagnosing his son and reuniting them that that checkbook will just fly out of his pocket."

She rolled her eyes. He was still trying a little too hard at this conversation, though. Instead of turning into PPTH, she drove to the park next door and pulled into a slot away from the rest of the traffic, not that the place was crowded at the moment. This morning's weather had kept people away. She switched off the car.

"Lisa, in case you haven't noticed, we work over _there_."

"I've noticed. It's stopped raining, though, and we've got a while longer before I have to be back." She reached over to pick up his left hand, tracing his fingers, fitting hers into them. The silence extended for a few minutes, House _waiting _even though he didn't pull his hand away. Finally, he spoke.

"Got a letter this morning."

"From Thornton?" She tightened her fingers on his.

"Sort of. It's actually from my mother over 40 years ago. It was sent to him right after the piano arrived." He stared out the window, not seeing the clearing skies. "Thornton said Tuesday that I didn't have to take his word for it on the music, that he had unquestionable proof and he was sending it to me. This was the proof."

She waited a minute, watching his face, which had its own scattered clouds sweeping across. "You said this morning you realized from last night's dream that they did have secrets. You didn't really need the proof now, did you?"

He shook his head. "No, damn it. He paid for the music; I'll give him that. It did add one detail. The concert tickets also came out of his money, even though that was the piano teacher's idea to get them." He was silent for another few moments. "But reading that . . . she . . ."

Cuddy slid over, pulling him against her. "I understand. Like the therapy notes last year. Reading through it brings everything back, even when you were there, and I'm sure she thought everything was just fine." She was careful to keep her own anger against Blythe under check at the moment.

"Yeah. At least in the notes she knew now. This was . . . she even said at the end that she didn't regret that night, because it was that that completed the family she'd always wanted." Cuddy clenched her teeth, holding back the words. "She also said that I knew how to keep a secret." A tremor swept over him. "Talking about the idea of lessons starting, of course. Not about anything more." Cuddy just held him, waiting, and finally he went on. "I emailed Thornton and asked how many letters there were. He said there were 129."

Cuddy froze, afraid to comment, almost afraid to breathe. _No, Greg_, she thought fiercely, but saying it might get his stubbornness up if he was still teetering on the edge of that decision.

He felt the thought and looked over at her. "I didn't ask for them." Her clenched muscles relaxed in a flood of relief. "I couldn't take it."

She leaned over and kissed him, holding it until he responded, finally letting go. "I'm proud of you, Greg," she said. She saw the brief bewilderment in his eyes. "I mean it. You have made _so _much progress. It's not just with this; I'm proud of you every week when you head off to Jensen. But today, that was the right decision."

He relaxed a little, settling against her, their bodies touching for the whole length now in the front seat. "He visited me 10 times when I was a kid," he continued after a moment. "But he got 113 letters - the others are later. She didn't write as often after I left home, but she wrote about every month or two when I was growing up. Totally one-sided; he didn't write back because John read the mail. But he apparently had a constant stream from her. And every one of them was probably this same picture of life, complete with flowers and rainbows. Hell, most of them have to be worse. This one was only about music." He tensed up again suddenly. "But damn it, he had eyes. He still should have seen things while he was visiting. I wonder why I'm even bothering with him sometimes."

She knew, but she also knew better than to say so. Instead, after giving him a minute, she asked tentatively, "May I see the letter?"

"No." She flinched away as if at a slap at the finality of his tone, trying to remind herself it was his decision. "I didn't mean it like that, Lisa."

"It's your choice, Greg. That's okay."

"No, I mean you _can't_ see the letter. It's not possible. I ripped it up into little pieces already this morning." She relaxed a little. "Wasn't thinking of you or Jensen. I just needed . . . it was so full of holes anyway."

"I understand, Greg. Sounds like a great end for it, actually. Maybe someday, gradually, one at a time, you can destroy the others." He smiled, enjoying the idea. "But I'm glad you told Thornton no this morning."

He was suddenly thoughtful. "I didn't tell him no. He didn't offer to send them. Telling me how many there were was only in response to a direct question. I think that must be the first time he's ever given me a brief, simple answer to anything. He usually spins stuff out."

Cuddy felt a wave of gratitude toward Thornton. He knew, at least had realized by now how difficult reading the one would be, even if he had mailed it in the first place. She wanted this, but she also was relieved that Thornton understood the need to be careful. It was a fine tightrope to walk, reopening the past. "Even if you don't have the letter anymore, Greg, tell Jensen about it tomorrow. Okay?"

He nodded, automatically slotting that in line ahead of chocolate cake. Might as well spend the session time on things that really _were_ an issue. "I will. We need to get back to the hospital."

She heard and respected the door closing. "Thanks for talking to me." She gave him a final squeeze, then let go, starting the car. As she pulled out of the parking space, she asked, "About that surprise you're spending time on tomorrow, how long will it stay a surprise?"

He only laughed.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: This chapter keys back to some of my favorite moments in House the early seasons, before the show got screwed up. The days when the POTW meant something and wasn't just background noise to the soap opera of the doctors. I always loved it when House truly had a sincere, nonsarcastic conversation with a patient. It happened several times in the series - always, of course, when nobody else was around to see him. But that side is there in this multifaceted, rich character. Loved those moments it peeked out.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. The Blythe story, two out, is not actually written from Blythe's perspective, but she is the whole core of that story's plot, and there are definitely some intense conversations. And that, until then, is as much as I'm giving you. :)

(H/C)

House showed up a few minutes early on Castleton's floor, of course. In between the elevator and the patient's room, he passed Castleton's girlfriend sitting on a bench down the hall, discreetly out of any possible earshot. She was looking worried. She gave House a tentative smile as he limped by, obviously wishing she could join him. No other family members from the Bucks clan were in evidence at the moment.

House approached the room as softly as he could, his ears at full focus. The door was closed, but looking through it, he could read the body language well enough. Castleton was mad, and Forest was spinning off excuses. As House stood watching for a minute, Forest pulled his checkbook out, wrote a check briskly, and offered it to his son. Castleton only glared at him, and Forest gave an eloquent "take it or leave it" shrug and placed the check on the hospital rolling tray. The businessman wasn't interested in extended negotiations in that matter. Curious, House tapped on the glass. Forest heard him first and turned, and Castleton keyed off the other's response. House entered without waiting for an invitation.

With both men side by side looking straight at him, the relationship between these two was unmistakable. Here were the eyes that had been misplaced before, the ones that matched the son's, and the facial structure across the cheekbones told its own tale, as did the general build. Even the annoyed expression was similar, House noted in fascination, in spite of the two having never met, so there was no possible copied mannerism there. Nature had it firmly over nurture, at least in expression.

Forest started forward with the confident manner that had conquered boardrooms and captured contracts. He had all of the rock-solid assurance and polish professionally that Castleton was still trying to acquire. "Dr. House. I've heard all about you in the news. It's truly an honor to meet such a highly regarded physician." He held out his hand, and House braced himself, anticipating that Forest would have aced Handshaking as Establishing Yourself as Top Dog 101. House shifted the cane to his left hand as Forest politely waited for him, then shook hands. He not only didn't react to the bone-crushing grip but refused to yield to it, adding more strength on his end than most people thought at first glance he had available. Forest's eyes met his, gauging, and the man released him and walked back to the side of the bed. "So," he said, advancing to the next point on the day's agenda, "my son here said you would be filling me in on this disease."

"I'm _not_ your son," Castleton insisted. He had hearing aids in now after his midday fitting with audiology, but he was so fiercely focused on Forest that House thought he would have registered every syllable anyway. "That was _your_ choice, not mine, and you made it 23 years ago."

"We can discuss that more later, Brendon." Forest's expression was unruffled as he still faced House.

"Alport syndrome," House started, "is a genetic disease that affects the kidneys, often also the ears, and sometimes the eyes. We know from the type Mr. Castleton has that he acquired it as a recessive gene contributed by both parents, so you yourself are definitely a carrier. The combination of you with his mother was a mistake." The other man's eyes flickered, but he didn't rise to the bait. "I'd advise you to get tested yourself immediately, kidney functions, genetic screening, although probably it would have already gone acute in you if it was going to. Your other children also should be tested, just in case your wife is also a recessive carrier. The disease usually starts in childhood into teens. How old are your other children?"

"My oldest is 22. They all are perfectly healthy, thankfully."

House shook his head. "Don't bet on it. Kidney failure can be silent in the initial stages. Castleton here had no idea anything was wrong with him until recently, but if his doctors had been on the ball, they could have caught this a few years ago. Wait for symptoms, and it's already a bigger problem. And unlike unpleasant details about past relationships, you can't just ignore your kidneys and pretend the issue doesn't exist."

Forest's chin came up slightly there. "The details of my relationship with my son are between me and him. Your input there isn't required."

"Neither was yours, apparently," Castleton snapped. "You never even _tried_ to look me up. Never even checked out the possibility."

"Thank you, Dr. House," Forest said pointedly. "That will be all." He sounded more like Mrs. Castleton there. House was abruptly seized with a picture of those two in the process of cheating and wondered if Forest had had a written agenda up front and took minutes and if she had wondered throughout how her performance compared to that of others in her social circle. He let the sardonic smile escape and widen.

"I'll leave when _he_ tells me to," House replied. "He's my patient. You're nobody to me."

Forest flinched, feeling that description more than anything else since House had entered the room. "Brendon, don't you think that this would be better discussed privately?"

"Like you _never_ tried to do in all these years? You weren't even in _touch_ with Mom, not once, and you admitted you _did_ know there was a pregnancy from knowing Dad professionally. But I wasn't your problem. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and on to the next board meeting."

Forest visibly straightened his dignity as if it were a tie. "I think we've said all we need to at the moment. Think about my proposal. I'll call you tomorrow when I get a chance to find out your answer. I have conferences until 3:00, but I'm free for an hour then. Good bye for now, Brendon. Nice meeting you, Dr. House." He turned and left the room.

Castleton slowly picked up the check from the tray. "You know what this is? Child support equivalent for 18 years. He's paying for not being interested. When I asked why he wasn't around even as a family friend, he pulled out his checkbook. He also offered, now that the cat's out of the bag, alternating major contract bids from now on so that we wouldn't be bidding against each other. In the companies, I mean. Of course, he'd go first with the current huge one, since I'm sick, after all, and probably not up to the process."

"What an asshole," House said.

"Yeah. That's his idea of a relationship with me. It's a business deal." Castleton looked at House curiously. "Dr. House, I read somewhere in all the stories back at the trial that your father wasn't really your father after all."

House tensed up so quickly that he hurt his leg, but he did answer after a long moment. "No. He wasn't."

"Do you know who your real father is? Was he around?"

House shifted his weight. "He. . . sort of." He started to turn toward the door, and Castleton changed the subject back to himself.

"Mine wasn't. Neither one of them. Course, they weren't a monster like yours was, but . . ." Castleton picked up the laptop. "I've got a business. That's the _one_ thing he ever gave me that mattered to him. Really, that's all I've got; the family is more about what looks good in the papers." He reached up to touch the hearing aid bitterly. "And when these stop working, I won't even have that. I can't be a competitive executive if I can't hear the others in meetings. Brad made me an offer this morning. He'll donate a kidney once I need it, assuming he's compatible, in exchange for Castleton Enterprises."

"Another asshole. Maybe he's really the one who goes with Forest."

Castleton gave a weak grin at the joke but shook his head. "Dad was the same way." He fingered the hearing aid again and sighed. "What's it like being handicapped?"

House's hand tightened on the cane. "I can't tell you that. All the information in the world won't prepare you, because you can put down an article or end a conversation, but you can't ever escape a disability. You'll have to define it yourself. But I think you're wrong on one thing."

Castleton tilted his head, finally letting go of the hearing aid. "What's that?"

"You said the business is all you've got, but it's not. You've got at least one person who truly wants to go through this with you if she had the chance." House looked at his watch. "Got to go now. I'll check in tomorrow." He limped out.

The girlfriend was still on the bench in the hall, the others still absent. No doubt Mamabucks had, as promised, been waiting for Forest down in the lobby after this meeting, and they would greet each other civilly and go off for a controlled, appropriate, socially acceptable discussion of the new situation over coffee. House stopped, looking at Castleton's woman. "Is he okay?" she said quickly, standing up.

"Go ask him," House suggested. She hurried down the hall, and House walked on toward the elevator. He hoped that maybe one day soon, the young idiot would actually hear her.

(H/C)

The bowling ball rolled smoothly down the lane and took out the remaining pins for a spare, and Wilson returned to his seat with an air of triumph. This hadn't been the night he'd fretted over earlier in the week, but he was enjoying it all the more for that. It seemed like _forever_ since they had merely had a good time together with no serious issues under discussion. He'd dutifully avoided all reference to Thornton, conversation instead centering on the current pennant race, and House, who had been visibly tense at first, was gradually starting to relax. The only complication in tonight was House's leg, which still wasn't quite at baseline, and breaks in between turns always stretched out. Thus, Wilson was not surprised when House didn't immediately get up to retrieve his own ball. Wilson sat down, expecting to resume the topic of the Phillies where they'd left it a minute ago.

House, as so often even after years, surprised him. "What do you think of when you think about chocolate cake?"

Wilson slowly put down his Coke. "Chocolate cake?"

"It's a dessert. Surely you've run into that before, Wilson."

"Well, yes, but . . ." Wilson eyed his friend. "Is this a trick question?"

House shrugged. "It's an _easy_ question. What do you associate with chocolate cake? First thing that comes to mind."

Wilson decided to play along. "My aunt Hannah."

"Why?" House demanded. "Did she have a great recipe for one?"

"No, but she was trying. See, my grandmother had this incredible chocolate cake. I only had it once when I was real little, but I remember it even then. Only thing was, when Grandmother died, nobody else had the recipe. She had never written it down. So Aunt Hannah was determined she was going to experiment and scientifically recreate that chocolate cake. One day, we were visiting her and my uncle, and she thought she was right on the verge of it, so she was being a whirlwind in the kitchen while the other adults were talking in the living room. Nobody paid much attention to her; she was a little weird anyway, so they just left her alone. Danny and I went in and kept snitching ingredients and batter until it turned out we didn't have to snitch them. She was glad of the vote. So she would add a bit of this, a bit of that, bake small sample ones, ask our opinion on what it was missing, tweak the batter with another variation, and we were just stuffing it down, eating all the samples plus countless spoonfuls of batter."

House grinned. "How old were you?"

"I was seven. Of course, after a whole afternoon of this, we were starting to get not as enthusiastic by the end of it. Then everybody went out to a restaurant, and I remember sitting there just staring at that plate and feeling more and more sick. So was Danny. Of course, my Mom responded by going off on her 'have to eat all your vegetables and good, healthy things' kick and made me eat every bite. Almost every bite." Wilson smiled himself. "I was nearly finished with my plate when I threw up all over the whole table right there in the restaurant. Danny managed not to throw up, but he thought me doing it was the funniest thing ever, and he couldn't stop laughing. Overall, it put a bit of a damper on the family meal out. And since then, when I hear somebody say chocolate cake, I remember Aunt Hannah in her kitchen using us as volunteer guinea pigs that afternoon."

House took a swig of his own Coke. "Wow. You really need to talk about that with Jensen."

Wilson shook his head. "Are you _serious_? You think with everything else available, I need to pay Jensen's rates to hear me remember pigging out on assorted chocolate cakes and batter and making myself sick when I was seven?"

"So you don't think you have a chocolate cake complex as a result of this?"

"_No_, House. I like chocolate cake. I just eat it one slice at a time nowadays, no big deal." The oncologist studied his friend. "Why on earth are we talking about chocolate cake?"

"Got to talk about something." House pried himself out of the chair and limped forward to pick up his ball. Wilson analyzed his stride. Bowling had been House's choice, but the weather from this morning was definitely an uninvited member in their party. As House returned after his two turns, taking down seven pins, Wilson delayed his own turn this time.

"What is it about chocolate cake?" he demanded.

House shrugged. "I dreamed about it the other night, and Cuddy is trying to make some big psychological deal about it."

"You had a nightmare about chocolate cake?" With everything _else_ House had available to have nightmares about? Wilson tried to image what John House possibly could have done with a chocolate cake in his friend's childhood.

"Didn't say that, I said a dream. Nice, innocent dream. There was a cake in front of me, and I was trying to reach it. No angst involved; it didn't bother me at all. I only mentioned it to her because it was a nice dream."

Wilson was getting the picture now. "But she thinks there's bound to be some deep significance to this."

"Right. What do you think Freud would make out of chocolate cake?"

"That hardly counts, House. Freud could make a big deal of anything, including fluffy kittens and blue skies. I can't imagine how chocolate cake could be too terrible, but you know how Cuddy gets worried, especially since the President and especially about you."

"Yeah. She wants me to mention it to Jensen tomorrow, and I tried to tell her she's just overreacting. I like chocolate cake. That's all it meant."

Wilson nodded. "Still, if you want my advice, I'd mention it to Jensen anyway. She'll be reassured about it, and he'll probably be amused. That should take all of one session minute, and then everybody's happy." He stood up, heading for his ball, leaving a thoughtful House behind him. Somehow, the oncologist got the idea that wasn't the answer his friend had wanted.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Second chapter in one day! Work is extremely light today, so I had time. We are approaching the long and quite involved Jensen chapter, two chapters from now. As for surprises and also for chocolate cake, all things in due time, but they will come. As for further previews, I don't want to start that precedent every chapter, as the story would wind up told before itself, but I think you'll enjoy the next few stories. Military moving protocol for household stuff is from my brother the colonel and is valid right now except for war zones and the don't-take-your-family-and-household-with-you high-danger places, which have their own rules. If the protocol differed back in the 1960s and 1970s, sorry. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

Moonlight spilled across the living room. The previous day's storm clouds had finished their slow exit, and the early morning hours were crystal clear. The glossy piano caught the rays, a dark star that had fallen into the living room. House played softly, quietly, using the damper pedal to not disturb the household, but even if there had been light, his eyes would have been focused far beyond the room. On the couch, the white cat sat in upright Egyptian pose, tail curled around her feet, her eyes fixed as she watched him.

Cuddy padded softly down the hallway and stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene. For several minutes she stood there watching him. He was far, far away. Finally she took a decisive step forward, reclaiming his attention, and he jumped. The music faltered briefly and then recovered. She walked over to the piano, and his eyes were firmly on the empty music stand now, not looking at her. She sighed. "Chocolate cake again?"

"It's getting closer," House replied, his eyes still averted. "Tonight, I actually managed to get a finger on the thing. It was pulled away pretty quickly, but I got one good swipe and got to lick my finger off. It tastes as good as it looks."

"What about the people?" Cuddy couldn't resist asking.

"The people? If you mean the foggy ones, they're still there, and I can almost hear them at times, but they don't matter. It's the cake that's the important thing."

Cuddy was wrestling temptation with both hands. She had a sudden impulse to call either Patterson or Jensen or both in a conference call including House right this minute, and 3:00 a.m. be damned. "Don't you wonder what's in the fog, Greg? Isn't there any differential on that?"

He stopped playing and looked at her. "This is a _dream_, Lisa. It's not life, nor my job at the hospital. I sure wasn't consulted on writing the script, because if I had, that cake would be a lot closer. But in the dream, it's the cake that is the center of it. It deserves all my attention, and I don't have to worry about the rest of it. There's no mystery, no threat. No, in _this_ dream, the fog doesn't bother me. All I want is the cake."

His tone was absolutely sincere. She wished she had a recording of that speech, because he wouldn't have recognized himself in it, but she grudgingly remembered Patterson's warning. Whatever _was_ lost in that fog, it was buried deeply indeed. Which, of course, only emphasized that this probably was material better left to Jensen than to her. "_Please_, Greg. Tell Jensen about it today, okay?"

"Waste of time and money," he retorted. "There's certainly plenty else from this week with Thornton. The music and all. I figured we'd be talking about that."

She mentally hung up on Patterson in her wished-for conference call, retreated herself, and gave Jensen sole possession of the field. She had never in two months heard her husband refer to Thornton as easily as he had there, without the slight mental shying that usually accompanied the topic. He'd rather talk about Thornton than the dream, even used Thornton as a change of subject. That thought frightened her. What would happen once the fog burned away? She sat down on the couch, her hands automatically finding the cat, and listened to him play, but the worry was gnawing holes in her.

House stopped playing, and she saw the annoyed glitter of his eyes in the moonlight as he turned his head. "So now you're going to sit there and try to guilt me into it, is that it? It's just a dream, Lisa." She remained silent, not answering the challenge in his tone. She wasn't trying to use her worry to manipulate him; it was there in full force in its own right, untamed. House played another few irritated measures, then stopped again, studying her in the dark. "Geez, you women. Have to go all emotional on things and not make sense. I wonder what it's going to be like in a few years with three of you ganging up on me." She had a brief smile at the thought.

He started to play again, and when he switched songs a few minutes later, starting the Serenade, she knew that he would bring up the dream in his session today. She didn't push for words; the music was seal enough. Her worry was still there, but the music and the thought of Jensen helped, and by the time they returned to bed a little later, Belle had also relaxed her stiffly upright posture into a purring cat loaf and had fallen asleep on the couch.

(H/C)

Bucks, Jr.'s labs looked better this morning, starting to stabilize, and fortunately for him, the report from the ophthalmologist yesterday was all clear. He would indeed wind up deaf ultimately, but at least he had escaped the visual complications of Alport. House surprised the team again by firmly taking possession of the morning labs and saying he'd see the patient himself, alone. Instead, he sent them off to fish for the next patient around the hospital, with instructions not to catch one for at least two hours and to make themselves useful elsewhere in the meantime.

Left alone, he settled down at his desk, part of his attention on the labs and going to see the patient in a few minutes, the remainder on his laptop screen.

Thornton was prompt to the minute today, the email popping up right on schedule. This one had a salutation, though not the name this time.

_Good morning,_

_Once the original money I'd sent was running out, John was due to be transferred anyway. I made a visit right about then, and Blythe and I managed to get just a few minutes together so I could tell her the system I'd worked out. From that point on, on the first day of every quarter, she had money sent to her by Western Union to the nearest convenient office that was _not_ right next to the base. I thought going every month would be pushing it, both for Blythe having to sneak away from John and for the chance of the office remembering her and wondering what was up, but quarterly worked. If she couldn't get there right on the day, the money wasn't going anywhere, and a day or two didn't make any difference to claim it. She immediately handed it over to the respective piano teachers and never held it herself. So all she had to do with moves from there on was to let me know in a letter where they were going next and to pick out a convenient office far enough that it wouldn't have mostly military traffic. She was a little worried that first move about the piano, but fortunately, while the service does ship people all over, they also pay to move their household things, so John didn't have to pay himself to have the piano shipped. By the end of that first year of lessons, it was already obvious that you had Dad's gift, and I sent money from there clear up through high school until you left home. Not that I'm counting that as enough. I felt like it was the least I could do, and I enjoyed sending it and the chance to do anything for you. Of course, any sort of official child support was impossible while we thought John thought you were his. I always wished I could do more, could be there more, even before I even realized recently how badly I misjudged everything. _

_Dad used to talk sometimes about his own first piano. He didn't have it still; he had a baby grand at the house by the time I came along. But his first piano was a little used upright, too, one his father had picked up as a gift for his mother. She played moderately well herself, but her real gift was in singing. She died when I was a young kid, but I remember her singing to us. I'd give anything for a recording of _that_. Dad took to lessons like a duck to water, and by his teenage years, he was already surpassing his teachers. He got a scholarship to college on music and never looked back. I'm mailing you another picture today. It's another one of Dad, but much younger, sitting as a kid at that old upright, but the expression is already there while he's playing. He looks just like you as a child. You and Tim both took after him so strongly. _

_Mom also sang, though not as well as my grandma could. She loved being in a choir and would find one wherever she lived. She used to tell me always to remember that people can do more together than they can alone, in music as well as otherwise. She cooked, too, spent hours in the kitchen, and every kid on the block could go to her for advice. Dad used to kid her about it, making jokes about adopting the neighborhood. Anybody she ever saw, she wanted to help out. I always wondered how on earth she could have possibly had a brother like my uncle. _

_My uncle in Cleveland, who took us kids after Mom and Dad died, was her polar opposite. To him, everything was a bottom line on a financial balance sheet, and if your life didn't measure up there, it didn't matter much what other areas you were successful in. He was a total asshole. I joined the Marines just to get away from him. There wasn't any big sense of patriotic duty or honor of the Corps or any of that stuff that John used to spout right and left. I just wanted to get the hell out of Cleveland, and the military was the quickest and farthest ticket. But enough of old memories for one day._

_Watch the mail. _

_Thomas _

House reread the email, picturing his grandfather as a kid playing, trying to picture his paternal great-grandmother. He paused again at the last few lines, why Thornton joined the military. So different from John. House could almost hear John now talking about duty and honor and other crap that the bastard couldn't have actually defined himself even with an unabridged dictionary. It had never occurred to him that anybody might have different motives for enlisting than being a hypocrite or a Rambo-wannabe or both.

Suddenly curious, he hit reply.

_You had to have liked the military, though, since you stayed in. So how many people did _you_ kill? John always bragged on his total._

The reply was prompt.

_Yes, I did like it, although I hadn't expected to. It made sense to me, an even playing field where I was treated equally with anyone else and I really could succeed if I chose. I got into intelligence work later, and that was fascinating. I loved the mental challenge of it as much as the physical. As for killing people, I was never actually on front lines. Some men who were had no choice in their larger totals, but it wasn't something they'd brag about. No other Marine I ever ran into would have considered that a measure of his manhood. I killed three myself over the years, each of them in a situation when I had no choice right then. They would have willingly returned the favor. I'll never forget the feeling after the first man I killed; after getting a few blocks away, out of the immediate danger, I started shaking all over and threw up in a back alley. The nausea was still there with the others, but I had no time to let it take over until later. _

_To my knowledge, John never personally killed anybody, definitely not while I was stationed with him, and he never tried bragging about it to me later, either, or spoke about situations where it might have happened. He was in a few distance firefights, but I don't know of him doing anything directly himself or hand-to-hand, nothing where he would even have an accurate idea of a personal score to start keeping one. I still have some connections, and I can get you a documented, official answer on that if you would like it. _

_Thomas. _

House stared at the screen. He wasn't sure which was more startling, the idea of a career Marine puking in a back alley after having to kill someone or the idea that John's total might actually be zero. Jensen had suggested a few months ago that John might have lied about that to House, but _zero_?

He forced himself to take a moment to think about it, trying to study this objectively, running a differential as he remembered the letters yesterday, but the possibility of exact, hard data was irresistible.

_Yes, I'd be interested in that. _

He started to type thanks, backspaced to erase it, and hit send. There was no internal turmoil over this one. He wanted to know.

Satisfied for the moment, he closed down the laptop, stood up, and went to see his patient.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Hi, readers! Short update today, but the next chapter (Jensen) is huge, so that will make up for it. There are five chapters left in Legacy counting this one, I think, unless mental chapters don't match written-out chapters again, which can happen. Things always look shorter mentally. Anyway, we're heading for the climax very shortly. Since I have some vacation time next week, I plan to write once I've worked myself into tongue-dragging exhaustion outside, so hopefully Legacy won't be much longer wrapping up. I'd really like to post the next story in the series, a one-shot, on Halloween, just because of the title. It's called Superstition.

Thanks as always for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

Bucks, Jr., was not happy this morning. House could hear him before he even reached the door of the room. "I don't _care_ what you get me. Just bring something. Decide yourself without telling me; you're good at that, after all."

House picked up speed a little - the leg was better today, at least - and got to the room just in time to see Castleton's mother standing up with an air of ruffled disapproval. "A little courtesy wouldn't hurt, Brendon."

Her son pulled his eyes away from his ubiquitous laptop. "Courtesy? After everything else in the last week, you're going to criticize my _courtesy_?" His eyes focused beyond her as he spotted House. "Where have _you_ been this morning?"

"Busy," House replied. "Is this a bad time? I could come back later." The last two sentences were anything but sincere, simply poking at the mother.

She gave a soft, dignified huff. "Speaking of courtesy, Dr. House, your own could definitely use some polishing. In fact, I intend to have a few words with your wife about what I've observed in this hospital this week."

"Be my guest," House replied. "I'm sure _Dr. Cuddy-House_ will be thrilled to put up with you telling her how I diagnosed your son, unlike his other medical morons, and solved the case but with inadequate courtesy and social graces. Her schedule even happens to be open for the next half hour."

She almost vibrated for a moment as she tried to think up a suitably withering retort, then simply stalked past him and out the door. House turned back to Castleton and his girlfriend, both of them grinning now.

"Wish I had a video of that," Castleton said, suddenly looking younger. It was a brief transformation; the disease was back peering over his shoulder in the next second. "What do the latest tests show?"

"I'm sorry I was delayed this morning," House said. "First off, your eyes are perfectly normal. The disease has missed them." Castleton slumped back against the pillows in relief, and his girlfriend squeezed his hand. "Second, your kidney function is looking better this morning. The meds are helping to stabilize things. It won't last forever, but like I said, we can slow down the process quite a bit. If things continue to improve over the weekend, you'll probably be out of here by Monday morning. How are the hearing aids working?"

Castleton looked down briefly. "Fine." The resentment was already rooted and sprouting. House couldn't blame him. Being dependent on a mechanical device to help you function was as annoying as it was helpful at times; he hated his cane.

The girlfriend spoke up softly. "Maybe you can still get that bid done in time, Brent."

"Yeah. Might as well work while I can. Besides, my _father_ wanted this one. I'm at least going to give him a fight for it, even if I'm sick now."

"You've still got a lot of contracts left in you before thinking about giving up the company," House pointed out. "Tell your mercenary brother to get lost. About that bid, I was doing a little research late yesterday after leaving here. This is the Greenfield contract?"

Castleton looked back at him, startled. "Yes, it is. How did you. . ."

"That internet is a wonderful thing. Given the field you and Forest are both in and the timing, it wasn't too hard. Besides an announcement of the deadline for bids in professional publications earlier this year, there had also been a general media profile done a few months ago on the owner of that company. I've . . . had my own experiences lately with the media." Both of them gave him a sympathetic grin at the understatement. "They are useful now and then, annoying as they are. One thing that story revealed is that Greenfield had a son die from genetic kidney failure. Not Alport; it was another disease. Human interest story, sort of all-his-money-couldn't-save-his-son deal. But it occurred to me, there is probably no better way to earn brownie points on that contract than a big media announcement this weekend in the press that you have donated a substantial amount for research into genetic kidney diseases. It would, with him, give you a significant boost over Forest, and it would give him something positive to associate with _you_ other than just as your alleged dad's successor."

Castleton nodded slowly. "That might help. I like it; using some of Dad's money to one up my _real_ Dad."

"Or, even better, using your _real Dad's_ money to one up your real Dad," House suggested. "Did you tear up that check from Forest yet?"

"No. I'm tempted, but I've fought it so far. That might be the only tangible thing I ever get from him."

"You know, PPTH has a nephrology department and has even done a few studies on certain diseases. You could endorse that check over to the hospital, designate it for studying patients with genetic renal diseases, and then it's his own money that will be working against him when you break the story to the press. Eighteen years of child support in his income bracket should be a nice figure."

The smile spread slowly, but it was ear to ear after a few moments. "That's perfect. Take that, you absentee bastard." Castleton turned to his girlfriend. "Can you get me that check out of the nightstand drawer?" She retrieved it, and House stepped forward to offer a pen. Castleton signed the back with a flourish, then handed it over to House as he returned the pen. House pocketed it.

"Thank you. Now, just to complete the circle, I'll go down and present it to my wife. She ought to be having a conference with your mother right about now."

Castleton laughed, the first time he had done so in a few days. "Dr. House, I'm glad I met you. Thanks for everything."

House smiled back at him. "My pleasure."

(H/C)

Cuddy sat behind her desk, professional expression of interest and concern glued in place, and thought longingly of the weekend.

"He is rude, has _zero_ concept of boundaries, and has greatly insulted both myself and my entire family. Medical genius is no excuse for such _appalling _lack of manners. I can assure you, Dr. Cuddy-House, that it will be quite a long wait if you were counting on any donation from my family. In fact, I honestly cannot comprehend how you can stand the man personally. He must have quite a bank roll himself to make it worthwhile."

The fire lit in Cuddy's eyes. "Now _there_, Mrs. Castleton, you are going too far. What you choose to do or not do with your money is, of course, your business, but my personal life is not . . ."

At that moment, House entered without knocking. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was I interrupting a complaint? This will only take a minute, then you can continue where you left off." He limped to Cuddy's desk, going around it to stand at her side facing Mrs. Castleton, and he whipped out the check with a flourish and handed it to Cuddy. "My patient, in gratitude for his treatment at PPTH, would like to make a donation. He's designating it for the nephrology department. He will be notifying the press, of course."

Cuddy stared at the check. It took her a minute to even register that it was on Forest's account, not Castleton's, and made out to their patient. She flipped it over suspiciously and looked at the endorsement, then looked back up at her husband. He was standing there with his eyes absolutely dancing, enjoying every second of this. "He asked you to bring this check down here and give it to me, Dr. House?"

"Absolutely. Deposit to your heart's content. Castleton might want a statement of gratitude from you for the media. You can call his room and sort out the details on that yourself. Nice big splash in the Sunday papers, good press for the hospital. He's very happy with the service he has received here." House pointedly looked away from Cuddy to Mrs. Castleton, who was sitting stunned in the chair. "Well, I have to get back to work. Have a good rest of the day." He limped out, head up proudly.

Cuddy looked at Mrs. Castleton, fighting to keep the professional expression at first, then surrendering without regret. "Was that all you wanted to say, Mrs. Castleton? I really am quite busy, and it looks like I need to set up a press release, too."

Mrs. Castleton stood up, knowing when she had lost, and retreated with what dignity she could. "That will be all, Dr. Cuddy-House." She marched out, and Cuddy waited. Thirty seconds later, sure enough, House was back.

Cuddy got up and walked across the office to join him. "Okay, Greg, is that _really_ a valid check, or just a stunt for the mother?"

House dramatically put a hand to his heart. "Your suspicion wounds me. _Yes_, Lisa, it's a valid check and a real donation. He really does want the whole shebang, too, press release, all trumpets and fanfares."

"What's going on here that I don't know about?" she asked.

"Nothing that makes any difference to the hospital. Don't look gift checks in the mouth." He kissed her, then parted a minute later with an extra squeeze for interest. "I'm off to see if the team has found anything interesting, but remember, I'm leaving early."

"Right. I'm not sure just how you accomplished this, but thanks, Greg. Will I find out about the surprise tonight?"

"Wait and see," he replied. He limped out jauntily again, and Cuddy smiled, watching him. She silently wished him happy plotting - and then a thorough session, chocolate cake included.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: We return to where we started, Jensen's office. Do you realize this entire story has only taken one week, fic time? Thanks again for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

House entered Jensen's office, and the psychiatrist gave him an assessing look while apparently just going to get coffee. House had an almost jaunty air to his limp at the moment, and he added a bit of an extra spin on his cane, flipping it right handed to left as he sat down before putting the cane on the floor on the left side of his usual chair with ottoman. He was in an excellent mood today. Jensen couldn't help wondering why. He always looked forward to House's sessions, but he felt the anticipation kick up even more now, thinking that this would be a particularly interesting one.

He was correct, though he would wish by the end of it that he hadn't been.

"How's life with Mozart?" House asked as Jensen came across the office and handed him his coffee cup.

"Operatic. I swear, he's going to break glass someday. I hope he tones down a little as he ages. Cathy adores him, though. I have to admit, he is cute, and he specializes in looking adorable and blinking those eyes right when you're totally fed up with him. It must be some survival instinct programmed into kittens to enable them to make it up to cathood without being killed first." Jensen returned to his desk for a Tupperware container and rejoined House, handing it over. "That's from Cathy." House opened it and scarfed down a fudge square whole. "She absolutely loves that piece. We've spent hours working on the duet version, and she's trying to pick apart the real thing one measure at a time. She's got the right hand alone down on the single-line melody, not the chords, for about the first three measures, and she plays it over and over. She even took it to her piano lesson this week to show her teacher."

A gleam of challenge awoke in House's eyes. "Could the teacher play it?"

"Not nearly as well as you did. It had a good bit of stumbling and was a lot slower. That's by Melissa's report; I wasn't there. The teacher was impressed with the piece, though."

House smiled, imagining the piano teacher having to work through a piece herself. "Things that are too easy are boring." He thought again of his own first piano teacher, with the sparkling secrets behind her eyes, and wondered how good she really had been. At that stage, of course, he had been no judge, but she had definitely been good enough. It didn't take a virtuoso to start kids along, after all.

Jensen took a sip of his coffee. "Well, Cathy's definitely not bored this last week. I'm really enjoying it myself. That duet was a gift to both of us."

"And does the kitten participate?"

The psychiatrist laughed. "He's bounced on the keys a few times, but we're getting better at defensive measures. If Melissa isn't available to hold him, we give him a toy mouse in the middle of the floor. He's good with his favorite mouse for a few minutes before he realizes he's not the center of attention."

House had been waiting, but Jensen apparently wasn't going to be the first to introduce Wilson into this conversation. "Wilson told me he'd called you back yesterday to report my real fall from grace last Friday."

Jensen's smile widened. "Yes, he did. You cheated on the _cat_. Must admit, I never thought of that possibility last Friday."

"Neither did I, and she sure let me know it. You should have seen her. She came up in slow motion, her ears going flatter every step, then hissed at me and stalked off. She wasn't interested in any explanation or defense, either. It was Cuddy who said I'd cheated on her, and yes, we were joking around with it a little, but only when we were alone. Or when we thought we were alone." Jensen was still smiling, but he didn't pick up the conversation. "So you convinced Wilson he was jumping to conclusions. I'm impressed. That's not easy at times; he's a very talented conclusion-jumper." He paused again. "Sounds like you spent a good bit of that session talking about me, at least what wasn't talking about Sandra."

"We talked about you as much as we needed to, only as it related directly to him, of course."

"And how much was that?" The challenging light was back in House's eyes.

Jensen was amused. "You can't make me do it, Dr. House."

House looked both annoyed and reassured. "You're no fun."

"Sorry." House barely flinched at the word. "I didn't realize that was the point of these sessions." House gave a resigned sigh, scoring the goal, and had another square of fudge. "What's happened today?" Jensen asked, deliberately repeating his opening thought from last week. Last week, House had been edgy and tense; this week, he was in a great mood. Jensen couldn't help wondering at the difference and how much of it, this week as last, might relate to Thornton.

Unlike last week, House didn't dodge - or rather, dodged more subtly, evasion rather than resistance. "Well, this session aside, it _has_ been a fun day. I got to participate this morning in giving a few stuck-up rich morons their just desserts. Even got to present Cuddy with a large check for the hospital in the process, so she was happy, too." He launched into a synopsis of Bucks, Jr., and the ending this morning. Jensen was smiling at several points, but he was dead serious by the end.

"So this patient had a father he'd never been told about and who hadn't been involved in his life. That sounds familiar, at least partially."

House immediately tightened up. "No, I'm not seeing me in him."

"Oh, there are obvious differences between that man and Thornton. But you did identify with this patient to some extent, because you were handling the interactions personally by the end instead of leaving it to the team. It sounds like you gave him some excellent advice, too."

House tried to narrow the topic again and cut Thornton out of it. "The girlfriend is the only one of his people who isn't a total loser. Watching that mother this morning while I handed Cuddy that check was _fun_. I only wish I could see the real father's expression when he reads the story in the media. He'll understand. That check was for $324,000 - $1500 per month for 18 years, roughly what someone in his income bracket would pay for child support. In fact, he had the amount so much off the top of his head - I saw him write that check, and there was _no_ pause for thought - that I have to wonder if he's had other experiences with child support and has a few other kids under the rug. If so, I hope they get their kidney function tested. But he'll recognize the amount when he reads it. One slap in the face, delivered in proxy by the press." House shook his head. "Asshole. He thought he could just whip out a check and make up for everything. Even now, he didn't really want a relationship. More like a business understanding not to step on each other's toes too much. He actually _scheduled_ his son into his business day when he visited, and not as a priority in it, either."

"He's definitely a pathetic specimen of a real father," Jensen agreed.

House drew the unspoken comparison and dodged again. "Then after that, I left the hospital early and went to a recording studio. I got good, professional recordings of both Cuddy's Serenade and the second song I wrote her, the one when Abby came home. I'd hate to think if anything ever happened to me that she would only have the memories of my music." He stopped abruptly, tripping himself straight into the subject he'd been avoiding.

Jensen followed the opening. "Like Thornton and his father."

House sighed and gulped a third square of fudge. "It turns out he's got a little bit more than memories. Not much, but a little. He mailed me a package last Saturday, right after I'd replied to the message where he said he gave me the music and asked him for details. I got the package Tuesday. It was a CD." He looked back up at Jensen. "Three pieces. There are only three recordings in existence. The man had an entire career - shortened, yes, but there had to be so much more. If he'd lived 50 years later, he would have been on Youtube and on random cell phones all across the country. Instead, there are just three pieces."

Jensen leaned forward a little. "You hadn't had any success yourself finding recordings. So these are private?"

"Right. They aren't quite professional quality, either, but the style comes through." House's eyes were distant. "He was _good_. Well, of course, he was a pro, but I mean, he sounds alive. Little personal flares added into it, but he could be subtle, too. He was marvelous at dynamics, both ends of the spectrum, and even the quieter moments, he gave it expression. I was listening to him the whole drive up here." House clenched his fist suddenly. "Damn it, it wasn't fair. He was only 35 when he died."

"He sounds like he would have been fun to know," Jensen said. "Lucas' report said he was into practical jokes, too."

House's expression softened again. "Thornton said when he gave him the horse for his 10th birthday, he brought him straight into the house. Right into the kitchen to the table where the other presents were. He got in snow fights with the kids in the neighborhood and played right along with them. My grandmother joked about him, called him her fourth kid, but she wasn't exasperated at him. Not even with the horse in the kitchen. Anything except music, he was just one of the boys."

Jensen sat fascinated, letting the details spool out. There was personal connection here with the grandfather musician, and that was something definitely new in the last week. Thornton had unerringly picked the best door as he tried to push a little harder for entrance into his son's life. The details, too, were new, far beyond Lucas' report and far beyond Thornton's brief, patient emails prior to this week.

House suddenly pulled out his cell phone and dialed up the picture of his grandfather. The actual picture was at home in the desk in the living room by now, but he had taken a snapshot of it to carry with him. "There was a picture in the package Tuesday along with the CD." He passed the cell phone over.

Jensen stared, taking a minute to soak it in. "That's remarkable. I could almost believe this was you. Have you seen the picture I took of you at the piano last Friday?"

House scowled. "Yes. You shouldn't sneak up on people with a camera like that."

"I wasn't sneaking up," Jensen countered. "The similarity to this one is amazing, though."

House shook his head. "Major difference. _This _-" He tapped the concert grand on the screen of his cell phone. "- is a real piano. I hate to break it to you, but yours isn't anywhere near the same league."

"Everybody has to start somewhere. Speaking of which, did Thornton give you details about the piano when you were a kid."

"Yeah. The music teacher was in on the conspiracy. In fact, she set up most of the details. He sent her an anonymous donation, and she arranged for the piano, even bought it from another city so nobody around the base area would know differently on the $50 front story. Thornton set the donation up with Mom in a brief conversation at a restaurant when he came for her birthday once." House abruptly shivered and stopped to take a few more swallows of hot coffee. Jensen gave him space, and after a moment, he went on. "Of course, he didn't _really_ know what was going on that night. He missed it as usual. I dreamed how it really was Tuesday night." He stalled again.

"What happened on your mother's birthday?" Jensen asked after a minute. House shivered again, and Jensen reached across to put a hand on his arm, warm and reassuringly real, reminding him of the present.

"I was grounded." Slowly, House told the story of that night and his desperate, futile effort to fix the lamp in time. "He didn't see it. He stood right there beside me looking at the lamp and me trying to fix it, and he never realized anything was going on."

"It sounds like he saw some things - he commented on your wrist - and your mother immediately brushed it off with how clumsy you were."

House predictably shied away from the topic of Blythe. They were working on her and making slow progress, but it was still difficult for him. John's brainwashing had been thorough. Right now, with obviously so much new material related to Thornton that they needed to get through, Jensen didn't pursue the point. House went on. "That's the worst nightmare I've had since . . . since the one right after the trial, and he was in _that_ one, too." Anger was kicking in now. "I don't know why the hell I'm bothering with him. This is just stirring up all the old memories so I can go through childhood _again_, step by step, as if once wasn't enough. But no matter _how _many times I rerun it, John is still an abusive SOB, and Thornton still misses it. All I'm getting emailing with him is a constant invitation to nightmares."

"So you think it would be better to just have nothing at all to do with him?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Yes, damn it. At least, some of the . . .yes. I'm going to be reliving it, the further we go. Easier to just get rid of him now."

"You're right," Jensen agreed. "There's no way to let him into your life without revisiting the past. If you want the easy way out, all you have to do is delete that picture, return the real one, return the CD of your grandfather - and erase all copies you've made of it by now, which I'm sure are several - and tell him to get lost forever. If you flat out told him to, he'd respect that."

House had been nodding at the beginning of that speech, but his agreement hit a screeching halt by the middle. "I ought to be able to keep the CD and the picture," he insisted. "That's my _grandfather_."

"No, that's not how it works. If you want _nothing at all_ to do with Thornton, which you just agreed with, that includes his father. It includes everything in that package and also all those emails of details you've apparently gotten this week. The story about the horse in the kitchen, right up there alongside the story about your mother's birthday. If you're going to wash your hands of him, you need to trash _all _of it." House looked stubborn. "What you want is to keep the good parts and avoid the bad, and it doesn't work like that, Dr. House. Not with relationships. People are a combination of positives and negatives, and you have to accept the mixture to know them. There will be pain involved at times with knowing _anybody_, assuming the relationship gets that far and deepens enough to truly know them. Even with the girls. Even with Dr. Cuddy. There are times they will let you down. There are times they will hurt you unintentionally. Do you think you should toss them out totally to avoid the bad moments?"

"That's not the same thing," House insisted.

Jensen changed tracks slightly, knowing the point would sink in better if he didn't belabor it. "Switching purely to practical considerations, about this nightmare on Tuesday night, there is _definitely_ something you can do about that."

"I don't want to kick the meds back up again," House immediately protested. They had the dose on the sleeping pill at a level now that was just a gentle nudge off into rest, not basically knocking him out.

"I don't, either. At this point, you don't need the full dose every night. That's something to save for times of crisis - like testifying in court last summer. But go with me for a minute on this. I assume Thornton sent you a long email Tuesday with all of the details of that night he arranged the piano?"

"Yes. After I received the package Tuesday morning, I told him I got it. His reply was as long as all his other emails put together. Half about my grandfather, like the story of the horse in the kitchen, and then at the end about that night on Mom's birthday."

"So he _specifically_ referred to an incident, a precise day, that you knew was only half the story, and you filled in the other half in your dreams that night."

House suddenly saw the point. "You're saying I should have remembered it and processed my half earlier that day."

"Yes. Remember, Dr. House, if you encounter a _specific_ trigger during the day that you recognize as one, you can often avoid the nightmare by letting yourself deal with it before you go to sleep. You're right that getting to know Thornton is going to bring up a lot of painful memories, but the thing is, it's very specific. You will know _exactly_ what memories are the counterparts to his own. You will know which nightmare has been sent an invitation. You're not left powerless and forced to just dream about it. Did you take time Tuesday to think about that night with the lamp in detail?"

"No," House admitted. He was annoyed with himself now. Jensen was right; the nightmares often _could_ be headed off at the pass with such a specific trigger that was known in advance. He knew that, and he had forgotten it that day, lost in the impact of the package about his grandfather.

"So try that. Whenever he gives you a specific trigger, let yourself follow it until you come out the other side. Don't wait until you're asleep. It's a lot more under your control when you are awake, and as bad as the memories are, the nightmares are worse. Remembering them during the day, you can still be aware that it's over and that you survived. You have some perspective now, and most important, you have the final victory over John. But in your dreams, you're still only seeing from a childhood point of view, and you're trapped again in the middle of it. I think probably Thornton is going to be cautious himself. He won't throw 18 years at you in one email. He knows this is hard for you to deal with."

"He ought to realize it by now, anyway. I emailed him Wednesday morning and said it was his fault I had a nightmare. Which it _was_."

"What did he reply?" Jensen asked.

House suddenly looked bewildered again, the annoyance fading away. "He said that maybe if I told him the other half of the story, what was really going on, that the next night _he_ could have the nightmare, and I could dream of music." The offer still surprised him. "He doesn't have any idea what he was volunteering for."

"I think you're selling him short there. He heard the whole trial, remember. Yes, there are large blanks in his knowledge of the past, but he has no doubt from the episodes he _did _hear just how bad things were. Actually, that's a good suggestion. Talking about it together as you rework the past would be even better than processing memories on your own. But I don't think you're ready for that yet." House had already tightened up in firm refusal even before Jensen got to the last sentence. "What else has he told you this week?" Jensen asked, changing angles again and leaving that idea to simmer under the surface.

"We were up to Wednesday. Wednesday night, he . . ." Irritation flared up again. "I didn't reply to him Wednesday morning when he offered to have the nightmares instead. Wednesday night, he emailed me and just said good night and dream of music."

"And you did?"

House was thoroughly annoyed at himself. "Yes, damn it, I did. I dreamed about the piano coming, and then some of my lessons, and then that first concert. Good dream, though. John wasn't in it at all."

"Did you tell him about that?"

"No. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction." House was still irritated at himself for being so suggestible. "I'm way past the age for tucking in, anyway. It was just a coincidence. Triggers during the day replaying at night, like you said. But he had said Tuesday in the long email that I didn't have to take his word for the piano, that he had independent proof and was sending it to me. That arrived Thursday morning." House finished off his coffee. "It was a letter from Mom. Right after the piano got there. It could have been written by a teenage girl, totally lost in a world she's conjured up. I recognized her handwriting, but . . . I would have known it anyway. It mentioned the concert tickets, too. That came out of Thornton's money, although it was the piano teacher's idea." House looked down at the container of fudge, but he didn't take a square at the moment. "I emailed him and asked him how many letters there were. He said there were 129. 113 of those are from before I left home." Jensen froze, just as Cuddy had. "I didn't ask for them," House said.

The psychiatrist squeezed his arm. "Well done, Dr. House. That was the right decision. One episode at a time, okay, but don't try to conquer the past all at once."

"I know. I'd just lock up. That's too much."

"Did Thornton offer to send them?" Jensen didn't think he would have, not unless asked directly for it.

"No. That reply was very short. He answered my question about how many and just left it." House met Jensen's eyes. "129 letters. He was apparently getting this constant stream of _fiction_ every month or two while I was a kid."

"And while he wasn't there personally."

"No. He and John parted after my first birthday, and they were never stationed together again. He visited 10 times." House looked down at his hands. "He _still_ should have seen something, but . . . Mom was constantly just telling him things were great. Even after I knew who he was, I never thought she might be writing him."

"She definitely contributed a lot to his missing things. Even in your nightmare this week, she was so quick to say you were just clumsy. And unlike Thornton, she was there constantly."

"I _know_," House snapped. "But she . . . she was the _only_ thing I had. Back to the letters, he's apparently kept them all. He had that one, the _original_, after all these years. Didn't even have to spend a day or two finding it. He knew where it was. I wonder why he kept them."

"Since he didn't realize either you or John knew your paternity, it couldn't be because he thought they might come in handy as proof someday. I'm sure he never planned on sending them to you, not as long as he was just a family friend. I think he probably just treasured them as his main window to your childhood."

"I always thought he just wasn't interested," House said, almost to himself.

Jensen smiled. "He's _definitely_ interested, Dr. House. Even back in your childhood, I doubt John had many other friends who came every year or two to visit."

"No. He was respected, but he didn't really have friends." House's head came up, thinking again about the possible further information on John. "Thornton emailed this morning again, more details on my ancestors, then said at the end he joined the Marines just to get away from his uncle. No big patriotic decision; he just wanted the hell out. So I challenged him that even so, he had to have liked the Marines to stay in for his twenty, and I asked how many people he killed and mentioned how John always bragged on his total. He said he killed three. I ought to dock Lucas some pay there on that background report; he missed that." House knew that Lucas himself had said the military information might well be incomplete, though. "You know what he did after he killed his first man?"

"Probably threw up," Jensen guessed. House looked surprised. "It's a fairly common reaction, believe it or not. Like I've said before, most military people do not enjoy killing. They only do it out of necessity. I've had several military patients, and all of them would have been disgusted at John."

"Thornton didn't sound like he was bragging on his total, at least. I got the impression he didn't like thinking about it. He did answer the direct question, though. But what he said next was really interesting. He said to his knowledge, John never killed anybody, and John never bragged about being Rambo to him."

"That doesn't surprise me at all. Dr. House, Thornton is the real thing when it comes to a Marine, and John wouldn't have bragged to him about experiences in the service, not even as a lie. A counterfeit doesn't blow its own trumpet while standing right next to an original. I think quite likely Thornton is right on his total, too. That always struck me as odd in your reports. John simply was not in the kind of action where he had hand-to-hand opportunities right and left, and you've said the total would go up at every single absence, too. Another fact of the military, based again on the several PTSD patients I've had from the service, is that it's short periods of adrenaline interspersed by long periods of boredom. Even the worst combat cases I've talked to remember lots of days, the majority of days, when absolutely nothing happened. They sat around and played cards and pulled practical jokes on each other to pass the time. _Nobody_ lived in constant hand-to-hand experiences at every posting for decades. It just didn't happen. He was simply terrorizing you, and he was lying to do it."

"Well, I'm about to find out," House said. "Thornton said he still has some connections and that he could get me an official, documented score for John's military career. I took him up on that."

"I'll be interested to see the results," Jensen stated. "That will be good for you to know, too. You haven't heard back yet?"

"No. If he's asking some brass somewhere, it will probably take a while. Bureaucracy never moves in a hurry."

Jensen glanced at his watch. They were nearly out of time. "It sounds like you've had quite a week, though a productive one. Very well done on not asking for the letters all at once. See if you can forestall nightmares this next week; for ones triggered by Thornton, you'll have advance notice of them. There's one thing I'm curious about, Dr. House. You had a nightmare Tuesday after Thornton's email, and you dreamed of music Wednesday night after he suggested that. Thursday was Blythe's letter. What did you dream about last night?"

"I was just coming to that. Not that it means anything. This is stupid, really. Totally pointless. It's a waste of session time. Perfectly innocent dream. Cuddy's just worrying about nothing again."

Jensen mentally counted the rapid-fire disclaimers in that speech - there were six - and psychiatrically steeled himself. House was relaxed introducing this topic, much more so than with Thornton, but there had to be something large there to deserve that degree of subconscious negation. "What was the dream?" he asked again.

"I've been dreaming a few times in the last week about chocolate cake."

Jensen raised an eyebrow. "Chocolate cake?"

"There's no stock shrink horrible meaning for chocolate cake? Great, I told her it didn't mean a thing. Glad you agree. We're almost out of time; see you next week."

"Hold _it_." House settled back into the chair, looking rebellious. "A few times, you said. How often in the last week have you had this dream?"

"Four times," House admitted. "Friday, Saturday, Monday, and Thursday."

Jensen was intent. "Four times in a week? The identical dream?"

"Sort of. It goes a little further each time, like if you were watching a movie, and you get a few more minutes into it. But it's the exact same dream, just with the plot continuing." House grabbed another square of fudge, thinking of chocolate now. "I first had it Friday night after Cathy's birthday party, and I'm sure that's what set it off. Things during the day replaying at night, like you said. But this _isn't_ a nightmare. It's a good dream. I wish I'd never mentioned it to Cuddy at all, but she found me up afterwards that night, and she was curious."

"She found you up afterwards. So you had to get up after having it? The dream woke you up, and you couldn't go straight back to sleep?"

"No. I got up to keep from disturbing Lisa. I was just thinking about things."

"What things?" the psychiatrist demanded.

House looked away. "At first the dream, and then Thornton," he admitted finally. "This is stupid. The fact that I'm having a _good_ dream isn't something we need to worry about. It's the other kind you're supposed to be fixing."

Jensen ignored the protest, still drawing out the details here. "So after you have this dream, every time, have you had to get up and do something else for a while?"

House sighed. "Yes." He looked back up at the psychiatrist. "Not you, too. What the hell is the awful mental significance of chocolate cake?"

"None that I know of, but I'm not sure that's what this dream is about. Tell it to me, Dr. House. From the start to as far as you've gotten in the plot, full details."

House grudgingly launched into the dream, but before he got to the end - at least the end so far - he was fully alert, watching Jensen's expression. There was _recognition_ there, with a small side serving of guilt. House hit the end and stopped. "What?" he demanded. "Have you been dreaming about that damned cake, too?"

Jensen took a deep breath. "Excuse me a minute," he said, pulling out his cell phone. He sent off a quick text to Melissa, telling her he was with House and he would be late, then looked back up to his patient. "That isn't just a dream, Dr. House."

"It's sure not a nightmare. So what would you call it?"

"It's a memory." Jensen was watching him carefully.

House immediately tensed up, body joining mind in desperately rejecting that idea. He ticked the points off on his fingers, trying to be logical, but Jensen was sure his pulse had jumped. "No, it's not. I'm at a birthday party; I never had them. I'm not scared, and whoever the hell the people in the fog are, I know they aren't any threat. I can't remember _any_ time in my life that I wasn't uneasy as a child. Even back when I was three, before it started, he was giving me the creeps just watching me. There were presents, and they weren't under threat either; I didn't worry at all that they would just be broken later. I even know the elusive cake isn't just there to taunt me or to have vanilla extract dumped on my piece when Mom's back is turned. I'm sure I'll get it. This is _not_ a memory."

"It's a _repressed_ memory. Earlier than when you were three; my guess would be your second birthday, although I could be wrong. This was back before John turned against you."

"John isn't _there_," House insisted. "And I think he was _born_ a sadistic bastard."

"I have a confession to make," the psychiatrist said. He waited until House was focused more on him than on denying the significance of the dream. "There's something I never told you about the night I met Thornton in the park."

He definitely had House's attention now. "What?" House demanded, the anger kicking in. "You two conspiring behind my back? Did he pay you? I _knew_ you've been too much on his side."

Jensen ignored the accusations, knowing House didn't truly believe them himself. He was just lashing out. "He had a picture he showed me, one he carried in his wallet all the time. The picture is of you in a high chair, with a chocolate cake in front of you, two candles on it, and presents on the table. John is beside you trying to get you to look at Blythe, who is apparently taking the picture. You definitely were focused on that cake and ignoring the people, just like in your dream. It's a happy scene, Dr. House. There was no threat."

House shook his head. "I . . . there was _always _a threat."

"Obviously, this was before John realized you weren't his son. He looked proud of you."

"No. You didn't know him; you wouldn't understand. He could look okay on the surface, but underneath . . ." House changed the subject, going after Jensen again. "You deliberately kept that from me."

"Yes. I didn't think you were ready to deal with it. I apologize. Apparently, your subconscious thinks you are ready to face it now."

"Anything else you conveniently didn't mention?"

"Aside from this picture and what Thornton said about it, there were two other pictures he carried. One is of him and his wife, one is of him with your brother, who looked quite a bit like you. I didn't mention those pictures to you because if I had, leaving out only the one of you, you would have tried to make it into proof that you didn't matter enough to him to join the rest of his family in his wallet."

House's breathing had picked up a little. "What did Thornton say about the picture?"

Jensen reached across to put a hand on his arm again. "He said that this was what he had known personally. He was _not_ using it as an excuse; he definitely thought he should have picked up on the change. But he said that for the first year of your life, what he saw himself with everyday contact, John was the model of a proud and loving father, and he was also gentle and caring with your mother."

"That bastard never knew what love really was," House snapped.

"I agree. Any love that could turn on itself that violently was warped and unhealthy to begin with. But that is what Thornton saw, and later, after he left, that's the foundation he still had in place whenever he thought about you. Again, he wasn't excusing himself for missing it, just saying that it was hard to flip things 180 degrees later from what he had seen with his own eyes. But I saw the picture myself, Dr. House. There was love and pride there. Until John realized your paternity, to the best of his ability, he loved you."

A tremor ran over House. "Mom said once a few months ago that he adored me. I hung up on her. I couldn't . . . that _wasn't_ love."

"You're right." House was looking into the distance now, but he didn't pull away from Jensen's touch. "But that's the background that everyone accepted at face value. That is probably the dream world your mother perpetuated; it had to be the best time of her life. Dr. House, your mind is trying to awaken those old memories. From within the perspective of the dream, there isn't going to be any threat, because you weren't afraid then. But when that dream runs out to include the people, which I'm sure it will, it's going to hit you hard once you wake up to remember that in light of everything later. Be ready for it."

"Damn Thornton. This is all because of him."

"No, it isn't. You've never seen his picture, and you've never heard him mention John's initial attitude. At least I assume you haven't, because you wouldn't have believed him, and you would have used the perceived lie as an excuse to stop communicating. Has he ever mentioned this?"

"Not really. There was once that first night in the park, he said he thought it was better that I was with John when I was born. I blew up, and he never brought it up again." House shook his head. "You didn't know John. You're misreading the picture."

"I wish I were. I agree from what happened later that his emotions were warped, but there _was_ love there, his version of, at least. But this isn't Thornton's fault. You would have remembered this eventually anyway, and your mind apparently thinks you're ready now. Probably it _was_ Cathy's birthday party that first set it off, but you wouldn't have taken the suggestion if you weren't ready to face it."

House's head suddenly came up. "So if I admit that John once in some deluded way was proud of me, or at least thought he was, then maybe I won't have to dream the rest of it with him? Processing in the day instead of at night, like you said."

"I'm afraid that won't work here. I was talking about things that you specifically remember the details of. You know how you felt then with the abuse episodes. This is something deeply repressed, and you're not going to be able to replace how you felt at two with just facts reported by other people. You're going to have to go through this yourself, experience those feelings and memories yourself, and like I said, it's going to hit you hard at the end of it. I wish there were any other way, but there's not." Jensen was trying to stay steady and professional, working through this and preparing House, but his hand was still on the other man's arm. "I apologize again for keeping that picture from you. There was too much else going on right then with the trial. It wasn't the time."

"You haven't mentioned it since, though." There was still irritation there, but it paled beside the monumental concept that John might have once loved him.

"No. I was seeing if you'd come to it yourself."

"So you're saying this dream about chocolate cake is actually about John."

"Yes. About the illusion of family you once had. I agree that it was an illusion, but it convinced everybody around you."

House grasped at another straw. "You said Thornton had this picture. He seems to be big on pictures. Maybe if I saw the picture myself, that would be enough, and I wouldn't have to dream it."

Jensen sighed. "I doubt it, Dr. House. You're trying to replace feelings with data again. But ask him, if you like. I'm sure he'd send it to you."

"He should have seen what was happening," House stated again. "He's a lot smarter than Mom, more perceptive. He should have realized something was wrong."

"Yes. He agrees with you. Unfortunately, none of these people watching John were psychiatrists, and even psychiatrists have often made mistakes and overlooked things."

House abruptly looked at his watch. "We're running way over."

"It's okay. I texted Melissa a while ago." Jensen studied him. "Are you sure you're all right to drive home? Think about it for a minute, for the sake of Dr. Cuddy and the girls."

House did take a moment to run the differential. "Yeah. I need to get back. Lisa will be worried."

"Do me a favor, would you? Stop at a pharmacy and pick up a heat patch. It will give you some company on the drive home."

House nodded and stiffly stood up. His leg was bothering him anyway, the muscular tension of the session suddenly making itself felt. A heat patch sounded like a good idea. "I will. I've got my grandfather along with me, too."

Jensen smiled. "Some time, when we're not on the clock, I'd like to hear him. Good bye, Dr. House, and be careful on the trip back."

"I've already got one mother. You probably would have been better at it, though." Jensen was relieved to hear the joking edge in his tone, even if it was a weak effort. House held back, waiting until the psychiatrist collected his things, and together, they walked out of the office.


	31. Chapter 31

"It sounds like this has been quite a significant week," Patterson observed. The little woman sat behind her desk, looking dwarfed by it, but as always, her striking eyes dominated the scene. Cuddy had long since gotten over the incongruous appearance during these sessions. Patterson, like Jensen, missed very little.

"Yes. I don't _know_ what kind of schedule they were on or even if they were on one before, but it seemed like he'd get an email maybe twice a week. Suddenly that's gone out the window. I think they've been in touch every single day this week, at least since Tuesday. I can usually tell from his reactions on a day, and there was something there even this morning. And then there's the picture and CD of his grandfather - physically sending anything is new for Thornton. As for Greg, I doubt he would have opened a package at first, just tossed it. But Thornton didn't stop there and probably won't stop with the letter. He's going to keep mailing him other things, one picture or such at a time, trying to push the door wider. Greg really isn't much for pictures, usually, and he hates looking at ones of himself, but that picture of his grandfather got to him, and I think Thornton knows that. He'll probably send a whole photo album eventually."

"Dr. House never had a true family he felt like he belonged to until now. Pictures from when he was young would just be a falsehood. He does keep pictures of you and the girls now, right?"

Cuddy smiled. "He keeps one in his desk at work. _In_ the desk, not on display on top of it. That's the same one I have on my cell phone of the four of us. I've seen him often take it out to look, but only when he thinks nobody's watching. Of course, anything he acted like he cared about when he was a kid, John destroyed, so I can sort of see his point. Too much practice hiding things."

Patterson looked sympathetic. "What pictures do you have in your office, Dr. Cuddy? Past versus present."

Cuddy thought about it. It was suddenly hard to remember the past. "I've always had pictures, but most of them were of banquets, honors, getting a big check for the hospital. Now, they're about the family." She smiled again. "You know, I never thought there was anything wrong with that old office at the time. It must have been so _painfully_ professional."

"It's never too late to discover something new about yourself."

Cuddy looked at her watch, trying to time House's parallel session. She thought after last night that he would introduce the topic of the chocolate cake dream but also that he'd put it dead last deliberately. They had to be approaching it soon. She looked back up to meet Patterson's eyes. "I'm just thinking about that chocolate cake dream. That's on top of everything else this week with Thornton pushing harder."

"You said the dream started last weekend. That predates the packages and increased emails."

"I sure hope he's talking about that today with Jensen."

"I think you can trust him on that. He knows you're worried."

"Do you think this is all too much for him at once?" Cuddy asked.

Patterson took a moment to think about it. "It's definitely pushing it. But he seems to be handling it as well as he could, and he isn't shutting you out. He didn't hide that Thornton's information had triggered Tuesday night's nightmare. He also came to you yesterday after the letter, even if he didn't say why at first."

"You're right." That thought was reassuring. "I sure would have liked to have read that letter."

"To help _him_ or just to be madder yourself?" Patterson asked pointedly. "He summarized it. You're totally justified in your opinion of his mother, but would having more evidence yourself to convict her when there's already plenty make any difference?"

"It might." Cuddy dribbled her fingers for a few seconds on the armrest of the chair, then gave in. "You're right. A lot of that was me just wanting to add more fuel for the fire. Honestly, the woman is hopeless. But I think she's also interfering with Thornton getting closer to him, even though she doesn't know they're talking. I mean emailing. Missing everything is his main complaint against Thornton, and she not only missed it all herself, it sounds like she fed Thornton a constant stream of fantasy. That had to color his perceptions. 129 letters. It could be a whole book."

"That point isn't lost on Dr. House. He will come to conclusions more slowly than you'd like, but the information is in there, and he'll use it. I know this is frustrating, Dr. Cuddy, but again, brainwashing can't just be undone with a logical answer. It's not as simple as here's the data, so replace with a new conclusion. It's going to take longer than that. But he's making progress. He was the one who asked Thornton how many letters she sent, after all. He had to be wondering how much that could have colored Thornton's perceptions."

"Yes. He's even getting annoyed with her himself sometimes when he talks about the past now. His tone is a lot sharper than he used to be. I'm trying to be patient."

"You're doing a wonderful job just being there for him. Like yesterday in the park, being available, even pointedly so when you know he needs to talk, but leaving him the choice. When things seem to be taking forever, just remember how short a time it's been. He's had two and a half years of therapy, and he's come miles during that time, in spite of some major new problems. The whole subject of his father only got reopened two months ago. All that isn't very long to rewrite decades of traumatic history."

Cuddy gave a wistful smile. "I was just thinking how this must seem to Thornton the other day. Before two months ago, he had no idea about the abuse or that Greg knew who he really was or was mad at him or that he has granddaughters. Then his whole world got turned upside down. He doesn't have anybody else left now, either, and he seemed so lonely in the park that night. We'd all be good for each other if Greg would allow it. I wish I could encourage Thornton somehow. The man seems to have the patience of Job, but he has to want to go faster himself." That led her straight back to her other worry. "Just as long as he doesn't push it _too_ hard. This week seems like an awfully big step. I'm really surprised Greg has only had one nightmare in it."

"It sounds like the two of you need a nice break from everything. _Both_ of you. Tonight is date night, right?"

"Yes. We have reservations at 8:30, and then we're going to a movie."

"He might be a little frayed tonight if he and Michael really got into that cake dream. Unless he volunteers anything, I'd just suspend all questions tonight and enjoy the escape. A movie sounds perfect."

"I never ask him questions about the sessions, anyway. Nor he about mine. That's one of the rules."

"It's a good rule. He knows you're worried, and I think he'll tell you, but don't be disappointed if he's had all he can deal with tonight and forwards that topic to the weekend. If he leaves the subject alone, try not to chew over it yourself instead of enjoying tonight. Just have a date with your husband. You're making progress, Dr. Cuddy. I'm impressed with how you've handled the subject of this dream. You're worried, but you haven't let that take control of your actions. Good job on that."

"Thanks." Cuddy sighed again. "You still think that dream means something, though?"

"Yes, I do."

"You couldn't even guess since you've had more time to think about it?"

Patterson shook her head. "Like I said, I'm _not_ the best person to do that. I don't have enough knowledge of his mind. I think probably it's tied to family somehow. It can't be tied to Thornton's increased communication this week, since it started earlier, but it might well be about Thornton in some other way. I do think he's afraid of the ending of it subconsciously. That's most likely why he keeps waking himself up from it before that point. But you'll know soon enough. I can't imagine Michael leaving a repeating dream like that alone without thoroughly digging into it."

Cuddy looked at her watch again. "We're just about out of time, and I have to make a stop on the way home." She started to stand up, then paused. "I might call you this weekend if I need to, after we talk about the cake. Is that all right?"

Patterson smiled at her. "More than all right. You've got me curious, too. I'm busy tomorrow during the day, but I'll be home tomorrow evening."

"Thanks for listening. It helps just to talk through things."

Cuddy was thinking about that as she drove back from Trenton. It _did_ help to talk, and that was still an unaccustomed feeling. So much of her life had been spent in competition with others that she had rarely had a confidante. Patterson's professional perspective and insight were invaluable, too. She was feeling better as she headed for her errand. She had emailed Jensen's picture of House at the piano to a store for enlarged, frameable copies on photo paper, one for home, one for the bathroom at her office. The shot seemed too personal and too special to have on the wall in the main office in view of insurance companies, coworkers, annoyed patients, and stuck-up potential donors - though she had a private smile as she imagined Mrs. Castleton seeing it and trying to incorporate that into her assessment of House. But in her bathroom at work, where she alone could appreciate it throughout the day, it would be a neat touch.

A few minutes before she pulled into her driveway, her cell phone chirped at her, and she pulled it out as soon as she had stopped the car. It was a text from House. _Just now leaving Mtn late - stopped for heat patch. Home by 7:45._

Late. She sat there for a minute trying to weigh all the possible significance of that, Jensen and an annoyed leg included. The cake must have been quite a discussion. Reluctantly, she let it go for the moment. Patterson was right; they needed a break tonight. The reservations should still be okay, provided he felt like going out. Meanwhile, the girls would be getting curious why she hadn't come in yet. She sent back a quick text. _That's fine, Greg. See you then._ She resisted temptation to add a request to drive carefully. If he was worn out and edgy, he could take it wrong. Putting the cell phone away, she collected the flat sack with the picture prints and went inside.

The girls were indeed hovering at the door by now, having heard the car, and they greeted her like bilateral leeches, one attaching to each leg. Cuddy returned the hugs full force, soaking up that incomparable feeling of coming home. "Hi, girls. Were you good today?"

"Yes," Rachel replied quickly, not even stopping to think about it. Cuddy looked at Marina, who was nodding.

Abby reached up to brush the sack curiously. "Prise?" she asked.

"Not really. Just something neat for all of us to look at." She removed one of the pictures and held it out carefully at toddler level. Marina bent to join in the survey.

"Dada!" Small hands came out to trace it, and Abby's finger then moved from him to the piano. She looked curiously back at the baby grand, wondering at the difference.

"You're right; this isn't our piano. He was at a party somewhere else."

"We having a party?" Rachel asked eagerly.

Marina and Cuddy laughed together. "No, girls. He was at one several days ago. It's all over. But we've got this picture, and as soon as it's framed, we're going to put it up on the wall in the living room to look at."

Marina picked it up for a closer inspection. "He won't like that," she said, but she was smiling.

"No, he won't," Cuddy agreed. "Too bad. He should have objected then if he didn't want his picture taken." Both of them knew full well that he hadn't been aware of it.

The nanny collected her things and left soon after that, and Cuddy tucked the pictures into the desk for safekeeping at the moment until she had time to frame them. The girls asked about House a few times as she cooked dinner for them, but a reminder that "it's Friday" sufficed. They knew he was always late Friday and sometimes missed them totally. However, they also knew that Friday was followed by the weekend, when he was around all day in compensation, and eager plans for tomorrow were tossed around like a ball as they ate.

A family movie followed, at least most of the family, though the blank spot on the couch was there. Once the girls were asleep, with promises that their father would be there when they woke up tomorrow morning, Cuddy went back to the living room to the desk. She removed one picture from the sack, saving the office one for the moment, then paused as she noted the manilla envelope beneath it in the drawer. She picked it up curiously and turned it over to see the address. From Thornton. This was the same one she had seen earlier in the week in House's desk drawer, the one the CD and picture had arrived in. Since he had already shared that with her and it was hardly hidden right now, she had no qualms about fishing out his grandfather, noting in passing the absence of the CD.

The two shots side by side, House and his grandfather, were remarkable. She sat down, savoring each feature, comparing and contrasting. Physically and in focus, they could easily have been the same person, from the chiseled face to the long torso to the powerful but sensitive hands. The only subtle difference was in those pain lines. Even relaxed and focused, House looked like he had been through more storms in life, though finally in a safe harbor at this captured moment. She wondered what he might have been raised by Thornton and his wife rather than Blythe and John.

Finally shaking herself out of reverie, she looked at her watch. House should be home soon, and the babysitter was due at 8:00. She had meant to get this picture framed and on the wall. As she replaced his grandfather, she paused again as the return address on the envelope caught her eye. Thornton's address. His address, email, and phone number were on the card Thornton had given House, but Cuddy had none of them. She weighed writing the address down, just to be a step closer to this man who drew her more the more she observed of him secondhand. She couldn't use the address, of course, not until House chose to open the lines of communication for her, but it was _something_. She debated, then retrieved her purse and copied it to her address book, sending Thornton a mental letter. _You are making progress. Keep it up - but please, be careful with him_.

Putting everything away again besides the one copy of Jensen's picture, she started looking for the frame she knew she had around here.

(H/C)

House carefully stayed focused on the drive back from Middletown by mentally assigning names to each driver he saw on the road, few of them complimentary. It worked, but by the time he got home, he was exhausted. He stiffly got out of the car, ran one hand down his leg and the heat patch, then went inside.

Cuddy had just finished hanging a picture on the living room wall and still had hammer in hand as she turned toward the door to greet him. He tightened up in mock alarm, recoiling from the weapon. "I'm _innocent_, I swear. At least on capital crimes. You're worse than Belle!"

"Funny." She set down the hammer, and they melded together. When they parted a minute later, she studied him. He looked absolutely worn out.

He noted the tightness around her eyes and sighed. "I did talk about the cake with Jensen, but I'll tell you tomorrow. I don't feel like it tonight."

"It's okay. I'm tired out myself after this week. Do you still want to go out tonight, Greg?"

"Yes. Dinner with a beautiful woman and then a chance to pick apart the errors of Hollywood. Who could ask for anything more?"

"Just pick them apart _softly_, please." Movies with House were always an experience.

"If the other morons there don't see obvious continuity errors for themselves, they ought to be educated. I'm doing them a favor."

"I doubt they'd see it that way." She turned back toward the wall, pulling gently at his left arm. "Come here, Greg. What do you think?"

He eyed the picture dubiously. "Slightly crooked to the right."

"Oh, shut up. You distracted me by getting home just then." She straightened it. "I had two prints made, one for here and one for. . ."

He interrupted, horrified. "You're _not_ going to hang that in your office, are you?" He mentally assembled donors, Castletons, and the whole staff of PPTH in front of it, staring.

She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, Greg, you're safe. The other one will go in my private bathroom."

His lips quirked. "Wonder what the subconscious significance of _that_ might be."

The babysitter arrived just then, and Cuddy launched into her usual excessive instructions, as if they hadn't done this dozens of times. While she and the sitter headed for the nursery for a final pre-leaving check on the girls, House wandered over to the desk. He opened the drawer, investigated the new sack to find Cuddy's other print, then looked at his grandfather briefly. Switching on his laptop, he entered email. Might as well let Thornton get a package ready to mail out tomorrow. Maybe seeing that picture _would_ make a difference, and he wouldn't be forced to continue this slow progression of the dream to the eventual inclusion of John. Jensen admitted psychiatrists make mistakes, after all. House sent off a quick email.

_My psychiatrist says that you have a picture of me in your wallet. I need to see it._

He hit send and realized a second later that he had just confirmed the identity of whom Thornton had met in the park that night, though Jensen himself had been careful to stay anonymous. Annoyed at the lapse - he must be tireder than he thought - he made a quick search for an "unsend" button, but as usual, there wasn't one. Damn it. Oh well, it wasn't like that couldn't have been worked out anyway. Thanks to the defense attorney, everybody at the trial knew that his psychiatrist had been in attendance, which narrowed it pretty well to Wilson and Jensen. Wilson's photo was on the website of PPTH as a department head. He hadn't really given Thornton anything the other man probably hadn't known by now. Hearing Cuddy coming back down the hall, he shut down the laptop quickly. Nothing more to this night besides dinner and a movie. The past could wait for tomorrow.

The meal out was excellent. House was quieter than usual, but they were long past the stage of needing to keep talking when together. Afterwards, they went on to the theater. Once the lights went down, Cuddy, on his right, captured his hand between hers and rested all of them on his leg, supplementing the heat patch but with her fingers securely surrounding his. He settled back and managed to switch his mind off as nearly as he ever could, him slowly feeding both of them popcorn since her hands were occupied. He could tell she was being pulled into the plot, forgetting her own worry at least temporarily. This was a romance, one of her kind of movies. He was careful not to distract her with too many editorial comments, just throwing in the minimum expected to keep her from worrying about not getting them.

It was just after midnight by the time they got home, both tired but more at peace than earlier. The sitter was just going out the door when Rachel woke up. Cuddy turned toward the hall. "I'll get her, Greg. Don't let her see you. I want to finish this date out right."

He nodded, knowing that if Rachel spotted him after going to sleep without him there, she would be five times harder to get back down. He wandered over to the piano and gave it a silent pat, not risking playing at the moment, just checking in. Jensen's picture came in for another analysis after that, and House finally wound up back at the desk, intending to fish out his grandfather's photo for another look.

He was unable to resist the lure of the laptop. Thinking that Thornton might have heard back on John tonight, he logged into email. There was a message from Thornton, but it was only a reply to his own.

_I'll mail you a hard copy tomorrow, but here's a scan if you need it sooner. I don't carry this one in my wallet anymore, Greg, not since I got back from Princeton. I replaced it with another one Blythe had sent me, one of you alone, although I had a hard time picking one out. Hindsight is 20/20. I'd give anything if I could have seen half as much then._

_I asked someone about John. Haven't heard back yet, probably this weekend._

_Thomas_

House's finger was poised, ready to scroll down, hovering over the key. Only the top few innocent inches of the picture were visible in the frame at the moment below the text. _Damn it, I didn't say to _scan_ it tonight,_ he thought fiercely, but replaying his message, he couldn't blame Thornton for wondering if a more prompt delivery method was in order. He had said he needed it, after all.

Cuddy was singing softly to Rachel, the warm sound carrying down the hall, reminding him that the past was over. Jensen even said there was no threat in this picture. There wasn't one in the dream, either. The only emotional impact would be what he himself added in retrospect. He scrolled down to look at his second birthday party.

He stood there for several minutes, caught between staring at John's face and at his own. Both were total strangers to him.

The rocking chair creaked. Cuddy was getting up to tuck Rachel back in bed, and she would be here in another minute. She was tired, and she had finally gotten relaxed by the end of tonight. House wrenched his eyes away and shut down the laptop. Opening the drawer, he removed his grandfather's picture, trying to draw strength from that calm, focused face and the music that he could all but hear in the shot.

There was a husky edge in Cuddy's voice as she re-entered the living room. "Finally alone again. I was starting to imagine possibilities in the theater earlier."

House grinned. "Maybe they wouldn't have noticed. It was dark." He tucked his grandfather in for the night and closed the drawer.

She rolled her eyes and firmly switched off the living room lights. "Let's get to bed."

Their lovemaking that night was intense but perfectly partnered, her making accommodations for his leg without being obvious about it, him adding in skill what he couldn't in force, and both of them hitting climax together. Afterwards, they each went through the bathroom a final time, and House shook out his nighttime pills while waiting for her to rejoin him. He stared at the sleeping pill. Normally, he resented the need for it, but tonight, he was suddenly tempted to drug himself into oblivion, this night and every night until the dream gave up and went away. He knew that wasn't really an answer. With a sigh, he took the usual dose. At the rate of advance on that dream, he probably had several more rounds of it before John was fully revealed, anyway, and the dream itself wasn't a nightmare, after all.

Cuddy returned just as he was replacing the bottles in the nightstand drawer. "I will tell you about that damned cake tomorrow," he promised.

She climbed in and switched off the light, and they immediately snuggled close together. "Tomorrow is soon enough, Greg. I understand. Today's had enough in it, anyway. We're too tired to really talk right now."

"Yeah." He buried his face in her hair, drinking in the scent of her. "You were right," he admitted, the words muffled by hair but still audible. It was a huge concession from him.

She turned to face him directly. "I'm sorry, Greg." The white cat, who had just jumped up on the bed, automatically paused and held her distance with a few tail lashes, giving them time before she even tried to start nesting for the evening. By now, Belle knew very well what the word sorry meant.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Mini vacation over and too short, but a lot done, though not enough. I survived without injury this time other than hammering myself once. This is the second-to-last chapter in Legacy, and I will try to finish it out Sunday after my concert that takes up the whole afternoon. I should be high on adrenaline when I get home. Monday latest, unless something unexpected comes up, and the one-shot next (Superstition) will be on Halloween. Some have said that they still can't imagine any possible explanation for John. Honestly, I can't either. There will be further info, but no data or circumstance will ever make his actions make sense to people who are thinking straight. I read extensively in true crime cases, and the saddest thing about fictional characters like John is that there actually are similar people in real life. As for Blythe, again, the big Blythe story is two out, but we are building to a series of events and conversations there that will openly lay out a lot of things from the past, as well as introduce new elements. That story is another roller coaster.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, as always.

(H/C)

_Greg reached for the cake again and managed to get one finger on it this time before it was pulled away. Someone laughed off to one side, and the light flashed again through the fog. Suddenly Mama stood there in front of him. She had pulled the cake back. "Be patient, Greg. You can have it, I promise. Only not all of it." She raised the box she was wearing around her neck, and the flash came again. _

_He ignored her, busy thoroughly licking off his finger. The chocolatey sweetness melted on his tongue. He reached out again with both hands this time._

_"John, see if you can get him to look up. He's not paying attention to me in any of these shots." _

_A few heavy-booted footsteps, and then Daddy was there beside him. He bent over, putting one hand on Greg's shoulder, pointing with the other. "Look at Mama, Greg. Come on, one good picture, and we'll get into the cake and presents." His face was right next to Greg's as the light flashed. Greg didn't bother looking at him or following the pointing hand. These two he saw every day, but that cake was a delicious novelty. He only had a hazy, rare memory of a few others, but he'd never forgotten them. He understood it was a treat to be enjoyed while it was here, that they wouldn't come every day. _

_Daddy chuckled. "I don't think he's going to look up until he gets that cake. Maybe the later pictures will be better." _

_Mama gave in. "Well, it's his birthday, after all. All right, Greg." She pushed the cake a little closer, just out of reach, and lit the candles. "Can you blow this out? Blow, Greg." She pursed her lips in demonstration. He reached out instead, and Daddy caught his hands. _

_"No, Greg. You don't want to grab a candle." Daddy leaned over and blew himself, and the candles flickered out. "Go on, Blythe." _

_Mama cut the cake into pieces, and finally, there was a slice placed on the tray of the high chair. Greg, of course, grabbed it with both hands. They both laughed, and Mama put down her fork she'd had and instead flashed the box a few more times as Greg stuffed it down. By the time he was done, he had chocolate all over his face, and Mama washed it off instead of letting him finish using his finger and licking it. Finally, a present was pushed closer. He pulled the bow off. Vague memories of presents like this came back to him, but those had been under a tree, and others had opened them for him. He knocked on the side of the box._

_"Here, Greg. I'll help you." Mama carefully unfastened the paper at one side where it folded, and she extracted the box within, then pulled apart the flaps. It held a stuffed bear wearing clothes like Daddy usually wore. Mama handed it to him, and Greg tasted it just to be sure it wasn't chocolate, then picked at the clothes, looking over at Daddy. _

_"Like you?" he asked. _

_Daddy smiled broadly. "Right. He's a Marine like me. Like you, someday." _

_"Now, you don't know he'll be a Marine, John," Mama corrected. _

_"Of course he'll be a Marine. What else could my son be? He'll take after me, a chip off the old block. Greg, there's nothing like the service, toughening yourself up and serving your country at the same time. It makes men, makes you into something worthwhile." _

_"John, I think he's a little young for the recruitment speech. He's just a baby, too young for a lot of things he'd like," Mama objected, but Greg just tuned him out, reaching for another present. _

_Mama pushed another present to him, but this time, having watched her on the last one, he reached for the flaps of paper at the side first. They tore instead of coming apart neatly like they had for her, but she gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. "That's it, Greg. You're a smart little boy, aren't you?" _

_"Chip off the old block, just like I said," Daddy repeated. _

_Greg had some trouble with the larger inner box once the paper was cleared away, but Mama helped him. This was a small riding toy with streamers off the handlebars. He swatted at them. "You ride this," Mama told him. She set it on the floor, then picked him up out of the high chair and put him on the seat. "Hold on, Greg." He gripped the bars like she demonstrated, and she pushed him across the kitchen floor. By the time then returned, his paddling feet had caught the motion, pushing off against the floor and propelling himself. He laughed. _

_"Get to the next present," Daddy urged him. "The last present is the really special one." He picked Greg up off the rider and set him back in the high chair, then put the final present, a flat box, on the tray. Greg stripped the paper off and then looked for flaps to open the box inside, but this one had a flat top with sides that fit on and off over the whole box. After Mama had opened it, he got interested in the mechanism and closed and opened it another time himself. Daddy reached out and took the lid away. _

_"Come on, Greg. Look at the present. You can play with the box later." Greg looked inside the box, but there didn't seem to be anything there but clothes. Mama pulled them out, and it was a little suit in Greg's size, again just like the clothes Daddy almost always wore. Daddy picked him up out of the chair again, putting him on the table, and started redressing him. Greg ignored him and looked across at the rest of the cake, now on the kitchen counter. "There," Daddy said, doing up the last button. "You're a little Marine, just like me. You need to get a picture of the two of us, Blythe." He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, holding Greg on his knee. "See my outfit, Greg? Yours is just like it." _

_Greg didn't see anything special about either of them - he saw clothes like that every day. But he fingered Daddy's shirt and then his, which seemed to please Daddy. "You're a chip off the old block, Greg. Look at Mama." Their backs were to the cake now. Greg looked at her, and the box flashed once, but then there was an odd winding sound. That got Greg's attention more than anything so far other than the cake, and he reached out for it. _

_"No, Greg, I'm afraid you can't help me. You're too young to understand the camera. John, I'm out of film. Let me go get another roll; there's one in the bedroom." _

_"Did you get that picture first?" Daddy asked, suddenly sounding a little sharper. "We have to get that picture."_

_"I think so. We'll get another few to make sure in case it doesn't develop right. Back in a minute, boys." _

_Mama left the room, and Daddy picked up Greg and stood him on his leg, facing him. Greg tried to look past his shoulder to the remains of the cake, but Daddy turned his face toward his and spoke very softly but fast. "You're going to be the best Marine there ever was, Greg. Even better than me. I was a bad kid at first, Greg, and it took me a little while to realize I had to toughen up, but I did turn into something worthwhile. But you're part of me. You get to start where I am right now, with my genes and my experience, so you don't have to make the same mistakes first, and you're going to go all the way. Never forget, Greg, you're my son. You're a part of me. The whole world is going to look at you and know you're my son." Daddy kissed him, his voice sounding a little odd suddenly. "Love you, son." _

_Greg wasn't sure what all that speech meant, but he tuned it out, still trying to see the cake. _

(H/C)

House's eyes snapped open. It wasn't like waking up from a nightmare, and Cuddy and Belle both slept on undisturbed, but the dream pressed in on him, more vivid out of sleep than in, the volume increasing as if turning a dial. Not just this dream but further memories, a veritable flood of them beating down the doors of the past, playing in his eyes and ears, all the episodes he had blocked out from prior to his second birthday until three and a half, when John's attitude had abruptly changed. It was then that John had started _watching_, and it was a few months later that he started doing more than watching, gradually and limited at first, then building.

John _had_ initially loved him, had been proud of him, had showed him off all over the base, but even then, there were danger signs. He told everyone his son would be a Marine like himself, but only when they were alone had he repeatedly and proudly announced that Greg would benefit from his past along with his genes, pick up where John was currently, and be the best Marine ever, the father's ultimate achievement embodied in his officer son, clear up to a predestined generalship.

And little Greg had bought it lock, stock, and barrel. He had never noticed the odd light in John's eyes at those moments, had never realized that there was something wrong with the words or thoughts. He never cringed away from the hands. He hadn't understood. He simply tuned John out, distracting himself during those long speeches with other, more interesting things, oblivious to any threat.

He remembered all of it now, back well before this dream, from about Christmas when he was 1 1/2. Remembered John's kisses, his hands, the pride in his voice.

House lurched out of bed so quickly that his leg seized up. He ignored it. Belle went flying, and Cuddy gave a questioning murmur as she started to wake up, but House didn't reply, urgently limping toward the bathroom. He barely made the toilet before he started vomiting, and he collapsed into the floor, clutching the bowl, the taste in his mouth not half as sickening as that in his mind.

"Greg?" Cuddy was there just seconds later, kneeling down next to him. Her hands, loving, warm, comforting. So different from John's, even John's back in those initial days. How on earth had he ever been fooled by that? "What is it?"

"I. . ." His breathing was jagged, and he suddenly bent over the bowl again, although there was nothing left to bring up except bile.

Cuddy stood long enough to get a washcloth and hand it to him. He wiped off his face. His blue eyes, fixed on hers like a lifeline, were horrified. "What's wrong, Greg?" She knew this was more than just dinner not agreeing with him.

"I . . . dreamed . . . it." He fought the words out.

"The chocolate cake."

"It wasn't about the cake. He . . ." House crumpled back against the wall.

"Hey. I'm here." Cuddy wiggled over to sit beside him, their backs to the wall, and pulled him tightly against her. "It's all right, Greg. Whatever it was about, it's _over._" He leaned into her, closing his eyes, and she simply held him, but her own worry had woken up now and was gnawing at her. "It's all over, Greg. You survived." He was silent, but slowly, his breathing started to stabilize. Once he had relaxed a little, she started to work on his leg, soothing the cramp.

Countless minutes later, he straightened up and looked at her, his eyes searching. She looked straight back at him, not having to fight to hide pity because there was none there. "Feel better now?"

"A little." He worked his mouth. "Could I have a glass of water?"

She got him a cup from beside the bathroom sink. The water helped physically, but it was plain. He wanted something with a flavor to it, any flavor except that of the past. "Could I have. . . something with some taste to it?"

She was worried herself, he could tell, but she didn't question. The time wasn't right yet. "What about a cup of ginger tea? That might settle your stomach some."

He didn't think anything would ever settle his stomach again, but the thought of the tea, which normally he would have mocked, was appealing. Hot, soothing, and permanently associated with _her_. "Yes. That's perfect."

"Okay." She leaned over to kiss him. "Back in a few minutes."

She left their bathroom, and the memories immediately crowded in to fill the gap. John's voice. John's face. John's hands. He could still _feel_ those hands on him, the touch of John's version of love itself painful. At least in retrospect. Why hadn't he understood then?

Suddenly, he hauled himself to his feet, his leg still royally annoyed, and limped out of their bedroom and to the main bathroom. He turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it, stripped off his sleep clothes, and staggered in. He was scrubbing desperately at himself when Cuddy joined him. "Greg!" She climbed on into the shower with him, still clothed and completely ignoring the fact. "What's wrong?' She caught his hands, trying to stabilize his uncertain balance at the same time.

He pulled away, reaching for the soap again. "I can still _feel_ him. His hands. They're all over me." He scrubbed at another area.

Cuddy gently caught his hands again and guided them to the safety bar. "Here, Greg. Let me help you. You just hold on."

He shivered in spite of the steaming hot water all around them. "I have to . . ."

"Let me." She reached for her body wash and opened it, the soft scent surrounding them as she lathered her hands. Inch by inch, she washed his body. He stopped resisting and just held on, his legs feeling shaky underneath him. She came to the end, capped the bottle, and kissed him. "There's nothing left there, Greg. He's not on you anymore. It's all washed away."

He abruptly realized that she was drenched herself, clothes included. "You're wet."

"We're in a shower." She was hoping to get a flicker of humor from stating the obvious. It was weak when it came, but it was there. "Are you going to be okay if I turn this off?"

He breathed in the scent of her hands, her body wash. "Yeah." He looked down, suddenly embarrassed, and she lifted his chin to kiss him again thoroughly.

"It's all right, Greg. Everything in the past is over." She turned off the shower, watching him. "Now, let's get into some fresh clothes."

After redressing and after an Ativan - an Ativan for _each_ of them - they eventually wound up on the couch, as close to each other as they possibly could get, Belle joining the heap. He sipped a cup of hot ginger tea, and the story somehow found its way out. He told her everything, from the cake dream to the memories. Finally, it ran down into silence, the tale completed.

Cuddy tightened her grip around his shoulders. "You were two, Greg."

"I know, but I still should have seen it. How could I have fallen for that?"

"You were just a _toddler_. You didn't have knowledge of anything different. We wouldn't expect even a gifted kid like Abby to be able to recognize something she's never seen or heard of."

"No," he conceded. He finished off the cup of tea. "He was _twisted_. Even then. No matter what his past was, he . . ."

"There's no excuse," she agreed. "Not for him. Nothing justifies that. But you had every reason in the world to miss it. Call Jensen tomorrow - I mean today - and tell him about this. Please, Greg."

He nodded. "He'd probably feel better himself for a session. He was worried yesterday when I left. It was his idea to stop for a heat patch." He looked at the empty cup. "Any more of this?"

"Sure. I'd like a refill, too." She stood up, watching him closely.

"Go on, Lisa. It's just a trek to the kitchen, not the moon. I'm not going to freak out again." She headed for the kitchen with a few looks back at him. He leaned back against the cushion of the couch, one hand on Belle, and thought back over everything. He was no longer feeling John's hands; her shower had removed that residue. But his mind was still recoiling as it tried to fit around this massive new data.

John had, at first at least, deceived _him_.

Just as he had Blythe.

And Thornton.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: Awesome concert this afternoon. Someone was wondering about visit-Mom day. If I have a concert in the afternoon, she usually is just skipped for that week. Too many things going on during a concert day with call time a few hours before and final rehearsal. Visiting Mom afterwards in the evening is not the time to do it, as I've discovered through experience. Always aim for earlier before she gets tired. So I didn't go today. Whenever I have a concert in the evening, I can usually fit her in in the afternoon, even if shortened. She would have understood music as a reason for missing a week; she was intensely musical herself before her decline. I do normally do a Christmas concert at the nursing home for all of them each December, so she'll get an extra visit there plus me singing.

I was indeed thinking about Mom with the side plot about recordings of Thornton's father and of House making recordings for Cuddy. A few of you have put that one together, too. It's not a pure parallel, thankfully, as when I started scrambling through old cassettes a few years ago, I had ultimately two full CDs worth of Mom once converted, including about half a dozen duets for the two of us. Priceless. But the point is valid that it never occurred to me over past years that I ought to be compiling a record. It's pure good luck that I had that many individual recordings. Mom wasn't (and actually isn't, sigh) that old, and I thought we had plenty more time. She slipped long before she should have. But it turns out I do have a nice selection, and it exists in about a dozen different places, so no fire or computer crash can take it from me now. If you have any sort of musical gift or your relative does, please work actively to preserve it for posterity. You might not have as much more time all together as you think.

This chapter ends Legacy, with things not resolved neatly but at least the plot arcs of this story brought to some sort of conclusion. Superstition, a one-shot, will be posted Wednesday. The next story after that, a massive one in plot and emotion, isn't quite cooked yet, so you may have a bit of a gap. It's a Christmas/New Year's story, and the main plot involves Blythe on a couple of different levels. The title it wants to call itself is (take a deep breath) the Hopes and Fears of All the Years, and all of my suggesting to my muse that that's a bit long isn't working. Hopefully that one will resolve some things for readers once it is finished, while opening others. I did try to work mentally on it while driving home this evening, but my mind was full of Handel, and he wasn't in the mood to share dwellings.

Hope you have enjoyed Legacy. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

(H/C)

_Need to talk to you when you have time today._

House's text to Jensen was brief, but the time stamp of 4:40 a.m. spoke for itself. Afterward, he and Cuddy had another cup of tea and wrapped up in each other on the couch.

"You haven't had enough sleep," he noted.

"I know. _We_ can catch a nap this afternoon with the girls." She didn't suggest going back to bed now. He still needed her presence. She wasn't even sleepy at the moment, any more than he was. He had hit the limit on words to her for what had happened, but he was still holding her like a lifeline, and they simply breathed in each other and were together in the soothing silence. Belle purred softly.

It was a little later that he suddenly straightened up. She could feel the thought strike him. "What, Greg?"

"I never gave you the surprise. Meant to last night." He had been too worn out after that session. He got up, earning a glare from Belle as he disrupted her, and went over to pick up his backpack next to the desk. He had taken out his laptop right after he got home last night, but the new CD was still there. He fished it out and returned to the couch, offering it to her.

"A CD? That's the surprise?" She wasn't disappointed, just surprised herself. None of her guesses had involved a CD. Taking it from him, she read the label. Cuddy's Serenade and Lisa's Song. This was a professional CD, the label printed on the disk itself. "You recorded the pieces?"

He nodded and sat back down, joining her. "I got to thinking, if anything happens to me, you'd at least . . ." He immediately realized he could have picked a better opening. Cuddy looked up with sharp, sudden concern.

"Are you feeling all right?"

He sighed. "Damn it." Some days, he wondered if he would ever learn how to interact with a woman without emotional stumbles. They were such illogical creatures at times. "I'm _fine_, Lisa. I mean, I'm as fine as I ever am."

Her eyes were searching. "There's nothing you're keeping from me?"

"_No_. I promise. No hidden symptoms. I just got to thinking after that package Tuesday, with my grandfather's CD."

She relaxed, understanding now. "Oh, _that's_ it."

"He was only 35, and they're lucky to have those three pieces at all. So much else lost. So I was thinking, _if_, and I'm speaking _hypothetically_ here, so don't go all woman on me, but _if_ something happened to me, an accident or whatever, I'd hate for you and the girls to be left with just memories. So I went to a studio yesterday afternoon and recorded them."

"Thank you, Greg." She still didn't like even thinking about an accident or illness - she wanted, no, demanded decades more with him after wasting so much time in the past. But she appreciated the thought now. "Could I hear them?"

"Sure." He got up and started for the stereo.

"I mean _live_. I appreciate the CD, Greg, really, but could you play them for me yourself right now?"

He changed course to the piano. "You're too far away," he protested, and she moved over, sitting beside him on the bench. He played both pieces, softer and more slowly than usual, but somehow, at the moment, it fit. Two measures from the end, his cell phone, retrieved from the bedroom earlier when he had texted Jensen, rang. He scowled, and Cuddy laughed. "That part isn't on the CD," he said. She got up to fetch the phone from the end table and handed it to him.

House looked at his watch as he answered. "You're up early."

"I always get up early," Jensen replied, an edge of concern beneath his usual steady voice. "My family is still asleep, though. Assuming from your text that you aren't, there's no time like the present."

"Might as well get it over with." House got up, started for the bedroom, then stopped, looking at Cuddy. "Lisa, would you . . . come in there with me?" He still wanted her within sight and better yet within touch. Jensen, though good, was long distance.

She joined him promptly, not making a point of it. "Sure, Greg." She matched his slower stride back to the bedroom, and they climbed into bed again, sitting up against the back, the covers pulled up over their legs, though Cuddy detoured first to get the heating pad and put it across his thigh.

Jensen hadn't said a word during that exchange and scene shift, waiting for House to pick the phone back up. Once they were both settled, House gripped Cuddy's hand tightly, cell phone in the other. He didn't hit speaker. He knew it wasn't fair of him to ask her to participate only halfway, but at least she didn't rub that point in. "I had the dream again last night." He went through all of it again, from Thornton's emailing the picture to the complete dream to the shattered dam that had held back two years worth of repressed memories to his near-meltdown afterward.

The psychiatrist listened quietly, absorbing all of it. "So what's the first thing you remember now?" he asked.

"Christmas. It must have been when I was a year and a half. That's foggy, but it's young fog, not like the other. But that's not the point."

Jensen had been trying to explore facts before getting to emotions, but if House wanted to jump their usual line, that was how it would be today. "All right, Dr. House, tell me. What is the point?"

"Weren't you listening? I _believed _him. I fell for all of it."

"You had no knowledge of anything different. Any child will take their own first experiences and assume this is the standard. He called it love. Why should you have questioned that?"

"I just tuned him out most of the time when he'd go into those monologues when we were alone. Wasn't even paying attention. I should have seen something was wrong there."

"Can Abby do calculus?"

"That's _not_ the same thing."

"That's _precisely_ the same thing. She's a genius, obviously, a child prodigy, but she can't even play like you can right now, and that's her gift. She definitely wouldn't recognize something she has never seen or heard about. I could hand her a page from a calculus textbook, and she'd be completely lost. I know we've kept saying that people should have known, but I was talking about the _adults_ around you in constant contact, Dr. House. They had a higher level of responsibility. And honestly, even with them, there was far more evidence later. I agree that John was obviously twisted, but I can easily see how everybody, you especially, missed it at the beginning." House was silent. "But that's frightening, isn't it? If you were deceived, you can identify fully for the first time with others who were."

House sighed. "He _still_ should have known."

"I agree. Later. So does he. And your mother definitely should have known later. But _you_, Dr. House, are the innocent one here. It wasn't your fault for missing things that no toddler could be expected to see. How are you feeling now physically?"

The abrupt change of subject startled House into answering without dodging. "Still a little shaky."

"Listen to me, Dr. House. We aren't going to resolve this today. Not even next week in session. But right now, I think more than talking through things over and over when you've already told Dr. Cuddy and now me, you need a break."

"A shrink is actually suggesting not shrinking?"

It was a weak joke, but he heard the smile in Jensen's answer. "We're already breaking enough conventions here, might as well toss that one, too. For this 'session,' I'm sitting in the kitchen in my pajamas having coffee and being glad the rest of my family, including Mozart, isn't . . ."

At that moment, an ear-splitting screech came over the phone. Cuddy actually heard it and jumped, looking concerned. "Is he all right?"

House and Jensen both were laughing. "Speak of the devil," House said.

"Cathy's door must not have been shut thoroughly." Jensen obviously grabbed the kitten and lifted him up to lecturing level. "Listen, you little imp, you don't _do_ that, especially not early on Saturday morning. You'll wake up half the town." Mozart's throaty purr in response could actually be heard rumbling in House's ear.

The psychiatrist sighed. "As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, it may be 6:00 a.m., but there are only so many emotional miles in the gas tank for one day, and you've sped through all of them. You need your family, Dr. House. Spend time with Dr. Cuddy and the girls. Go to the park. Do something together. Whatever you do, spend it together. Don't give yourself time alone to brood on things today. We will talk about this a lot more in the coming weeks, but I don't think right now is the time. We wouldn't answer anything by pushing you harder than the day already has."

House leaned back against the headboard. He did feel exhausted suddenly. "Okay," he gave in.

Jensen was immediately suspicious. "Please, Dr. House. Listen to me."

"I said okay. Want a specific list? I promise that I'll spend today with my family and we'll do all sorts of family fun together instead of thinking about what happened when I was a toddler. Satisfied?"

"Yes. May I speak to Dr. Cuddy for a minute?"

House tightened up. "Why?"

"Put it on speaker if you want to."

House debated, then handed Cuddy the phone. "He wants to talk to you." Cuddy eyed him, then put it on speaker herself.

"Yes? We're both here now."

"Dr. Cuddy, I just wanted to tell you two things. First of all, well done this morning. Very well done."

Cuddy blinked back sudden tears as a little of the knot of tension in her released. "Thanks."

"Second, I'd suggest that you talk to your own therapist about this morning, but give yourself a day with the family first. You need the break as much as he does."

"Not a bad idea," House threw in. "Patterson, I mean."

"I was going to call her tonight. She said yesterday she'd be home tonight." Cuddy looked at her husband and at the clock past him. "She's probably home now, but I don't quite feel right putting her on your schedule yet."

"You don't need more right now, anyway. Neither one of you do. Have a family day together, okay? And forget this newly awakened past for today. Don't dwell on it. It's not going to be processed in a day no matter what we do. You might also take a nap later."

"Already in the schedule," House said.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Jensen, for everything," Cuddy told him, again grateful that of all the out-of-state psychiatrists out there, House had by pure luck landed with Jensen. "What's that grinding noise?"

"That's just Mozart."

"YE-OOOWWWWWWWWWWW!" The sound on speaker echoed through the room, and Belle stood up from the foot of the bed, arched, and hissed, then looked wildly around, trying to spot her competition.

"We'd better wrap it up before I accidentally cheat on the cat again," House said.

In the background from the other end, a voice was heard. "Michael?"

"We need to wrap it up anyway," Jensen said quickly. "Call me when you need to this week, but let's invoke the 5-minute rule for a few days on this new subject, okay? Like with your mother at first. Small bites are easier swallowed, Dr. House."

"Right. Talk to you later." House paused. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Enjoy your day, both of you." Jensen hung up.

House and Cuddy looked at each other, then at Belle, still ruffled, and fell into laughter together, another thin layer of the tension peeling off and floating away.

(H/C)

House's eyes opened. It was mid afternoon, but Cuddy was still solidly out, enjoying their own after-lunch nap while the girls had one. They had spent a pure family morning as prescribed, and House felt progressively steadier. It seemed counterproductive _not_ to obsess about the new data, but Jensen was right. He did feel better for the break, and he hadn't had dreams this afternoon, only rest with his hand securely in Cuddy's.

House got up softly, giving Belle's ears a scratch, and then left the bedroom, closing the door behind him silently. He felt better for the nap, but might as well let Cuddy get as much more sleep as she could. He no longer felt in danger of meltdown if he couldn't see her, although he definitely wanted her near. He spent a few minutes in the nursery, watching his daughters, making himself see them, not himself at their age. There was no illusion to their safety, no missed threat. He touched one, then the other girl softly, proudly, and both of them moved slightly into his hand, even in sleep.

Ultimately, he wandered to the living room. He didn't want to play the piano until Cuddy woke up, although a concert and then a movie sounded good for tonight. Instead, he wound up at the laptop, seeing if Thornton had heard back from his connection. This wasn't about last night's revelation, after all. Jensen had thoroughly approved House having accurate information on John's score.

The message was there from a few hours ago, simply forwarded on from Thornton without added comment. House was surprised to see in the email address that it was from a general.

_Hi, T. Good to hear from you. It's been a while. _

_Odd question, but I'm sure you've got a reason for it. No, there is no record of John House ever killing anyone directly in hand-to-hand combat. He put in one tour in Nam, but he wasn't way out on the edge in the jungle. He worked at a central supply camp, quartermaster. There are two reports of days during his year where that camp came under fire. On both occasions, our fire was called in on the presumed enemy location, and they were chased back or eliminated by the responding planes. If he ever killed anyone long distance during the brief excitement there, it wasn't reported, and there is no way that an official count could have been known by himself or anyone else. The enemy was never even in sight._

_I went a little further to explore his career overall. It's an interesting one in a few ways. He was officially reprimanded three times, each time for the same reason: Excessive display of temper. He was only ever a drill sergeant once, and he was pulled from that duty partway through boot camp, his recruits finishing out under someone else, as he was simply too hard on the men. He was an excellent quartermaster, seemed a little obsessive about counting and keeping track of things. He made a kind of slow rise through the ranks. I mean, in spite of his being an officer, given that he was in for nearly 40 years, I'd expect more personal awards than he had. Most were simply standard end of tour awards or once the whole unit being cited as a group. He never once in all those decades received any strong personal commendation in his record from a commander. Others called him efficient, tough, but never exceptional in a positive way. On the two occasions in Nam mentioned above, there were individuals in the camp noted in the record by superiors for personal bravery. He wasn't one of them. Overall, he was a steady career Marine, but not an exceptional one. If I had to pick a man alongside me on a tough mission, he wouldn't be that man. _

_Hope you're doing well, buddy. You can have my back anytime. _

_Steve _

House read it three times. So the lying bastard had indeed lied about his service, too. House wondered about the three official reprimands. John, of course, had never mentioned those to the family at the time. House tossed that idea around until he remembered that he wasn't supposed to be obsessing about John.

Resisting temptation to go back and look at the picture of his second birthday, instead he pulled out the picture of his grandfather for another look. Just the sight of this man was calming somehow, sort of like being with Jensen. Even if he had scared Cuddy at first, House was glad he had captured professional recordings of those two pieces, just in case.

Seeing Cuddy's envelope in the drawer, he removed the other copy of Jensen's picture and laid them side by side, and he analyzed that for a long while as he sat there, one hand unconsciously rubbing his leg.

Pictures. Another one of his grandfather was on the way, one much younger. House wondered if the resemblance earlier would be as strong. It was only then, belatedly, that the point lost in the stress of the last day finally struck him. Thornton did have a scanner or at least had access to someone else's at late hours if he chose. However, he had mailed this picture, was mailing the others, and no doubt would keep mailing a whole slideshow, delivered one slow and delayed piece at a time by USPS. Only when he thought there might be a legitimate urgent need on House's part had he broken that pattern.

Thornton was playing his son, deliberately using the delay and anticipation of packages to try to keep him on the hook. House shook his head. "You son of a bitch," he snarled at the laptop, but for the first time, there was a faint, grudging note of respect in his tone.

He looked at the two pictures. His grandfather. Himself. Thornton conspiring with the Post Office against him. Two could play at that game, though. He called up a blank email form.

_Watch the mail._

Smiling to himself, he sent it off, then took Cuddy's second shot and sealed it in a new manilla envelope, addressing it. She could get another printed up for her bathroom at work.

Cuddy's voice rang down the hall, an edge of anxiety beneath it. "Greg? Are you okay?"

"In here. I'm fine." He stood up and put the addressed envelope in his backpack. He'd be sure to mail that Monday.

Or at least by Tuesday.


End file.
